A Fitting Finale
by CrazygurlMadness
Summary: This series of oneshots is focused on each Traveler finding his or her own place in the world, with the support of their found family. / H'aanit x Alaic; Tressa x Ali; Olberic x Eliza. Coming soon: Ophilia x Kit.
1. Fierce

**The complete version of this one shot (which includes a lemon) is available on AO3. Sadly this site does not allow me to post more than suggestive themes, because sex is bad and we should feel bad.**

 **You might be asking why I'm here and why I'm not writing moar Zelink or _Legend of Zelda_ content ― it's because I am a bad person whose priorities are never properly sorted and because _Octopath Traveler_ is my fucking revitalizing jam!**

 **More pairings to come. I just thought there were too few H'aanit x Alaic fics out there and you know what they say: be the change you want to see in the world.**

 **Love,**  
 **CM**

* * *

 **A Fitting Finale**

 **Part 1: Fierce**

* * *

H'aanit was worried.

She didn't say anything, though. First because there was no one to listen... and second because she wasn't sure her concerns were founded. Not yet. But they were growing in her mind, looming large like the shadow of a great beast.

She strode forward, from the cover of one tree to the next, her feet avoiding noisy steps almost on their own. She had long stopped noticing breakable twigs and crackling needles. She moved like the wind, like a predator, an arrow nocked, but her bowstring undrawn.

She breathed evenly, each exhalation calculated on a level she no longer acknowledged, too deep to reflect upon, too rehearsed to distract her mind from the greater chase.

In her chest, though, her heart raced. Not with excitement, but with worry.

"Linde," she called, to the woods, eyes darting from bush to shadow, from clearing to foliage.

There was no reply ― not altogether unusual, for when Linde hunted, the snow leopard did so with deadly silence ― but the complete quiet filled H'aanit's heart with instinctual fear.

She paused to collect herself, taking in her surroundings. They were far from Victor's Hollow, and further still from S'warkii. They had drifted to the foothills of the Frostlands, whose snow-capped peaks and glacial valleys loomed high to the east. Here, for now, the snow had no hold, and the forest was thick and green and deep and dark. A perfect refuge for prey. A perfect realm for hunters.

It sometimes happened that Linde went off on her own. She was a fierce huntress in her own right ― and still young and strong enough that she did not need H'aanit's assistance to find her meals. But she rarely wandered out of H'aanit's range of call, and even more rarely wandered away longer than one day at a time.

So it was that H'aanit's heart was trembling with worry.

" _Linde_!" She called again, more insistently.

She paused, listened. There was wind in the trees, and here and there the distant buzzing of insects… but little else. No birdsong. No animal scents. Not a good place to hunt. Perhaps it had been overhunted, lately.

She was about to keep moving when she saw the snare.

Whatever creature it had captured had long since been devoured ― a rabbit, perhaps, or a squirrel. Eaten on location, by some other animal. A cruel, unfair way to die. And the snare was still there. A rookie mistake, for it remained a risk once the carcass decomposed. What hunter didn't recover their snared game in time? And left their snares to dwindle the forest's bounty needlessly?

With her knife, H'aanit cut the rope and let the snare mix with the bones. A good warning, perhaps.

But now the doubt niggled at her mind. If a careless hunter had come here and set this snare, it was likely there were others. And if there were others―

"Linde!" She called, firmly, looking about her.

She sensed the growl more than heard it. Scarcely catching her breath, she ran in its direction, hoping she was right, no longer caring what sound she made as she moved through the underbrush.

She found Linde by the steam, her leg twisted at an unnatural angle. She was matted and weak. No doubt she had been stuck here, with her leg in that snare ― another snare! H'aanit felt a surge of raw fury at the carelessness of whoever had set it ― for at least a few hours.

"Linde," she breathed, sliding down the bank towards her companion in a flurry of dead leaves and moss.

Blessedly, the snow leopard raised its head in acknowledgement, and let out a pathetic little purr. H'aanit's hand went to her neck, scratching the fur there, and Linde tried to rise, but merely twisted herself further.

"Stop," H'aanit urged her, hushing softly. "Stop moving, thou wilt hurt thy leg further."

She ran a hand along Linde's hind leg, heart aching with sympathy and anger. The rope had cut into Linde's back paw, rubbing it red and raw, and when she tried to pull at it, Linde snapped her befanged jaws at her, caterwauling.

"I know it hurteth," H'aanit murmured, the pain in her voice betraying the hurt in her soul. "It will hurten more before long."

Linde made another weak growl, but did not snap at her again, letting her head fall back to the ground in exhausted defeat.

As gently as she could, H'aanit slid her sharpest knife along Linde's spotted white fur, sliding its blade under the snare's rope.

"Art thou ready?" She breathed, glancing at Linde's feverish eye.

The snow leopard made a low sound in her throat that was neither assent or dissent, and H'aanit bent to kiss her forehead. And if she thought her vision was blurry, she wasn't going to acknowledge it.

With vigour, she began to cut the rope. Linde began to purr with pain, her teeth grinding uncharacteristically. Her head swayed, giving sharp nods, as though she were resisting the urge to rip H'aanit's arm off.

"I can't blamen thee," H'aanit agreed, as she cut through the last strands of the rope. "Be brave now," she commanded, sniffing, "for thy pains aren almost done."

Linde roared when H'aanit pried the rope out of her wound. The flesh was exposed and raw, bleeding and perhaps infected.

It was nasty business, and if H'aanit ever found the hunter responsible for this, she would share fists before she shared words.

Linde tried to stand, but her leg was still twisted. It refused to cooperate, and Linde could only drag herself with her front paws. No doubt she had dislocated her leg when the snare had tripped her.

In the wild, such an injury was a death sentence.

But H'aanit was not going to give up.

"I shall taken thou to safety," she vowed. "But it will be painful, and we must both remainen strong."

Even as she said the words, she dreaded the prospect, and found herself awash in more worry. They were far from civilization. Much farther than she had intended to be. And Linde was heavy ― almost as heavy as H'aanit herself. But she had not eaten recently, and H'aanit was strong. She had to be, and it would have to be enough.

As for where she ought to take her… The concern squeezed her gut. S'warkii would have been ideal, for Master Z'aanta was there, and he knew the healing of beasts. But S'warkii was four days out, perhaps five, and Linde's open wound would not survive four days with only minimal treatment for infections.

Her mind turned to Victor's Hollow, three days out, and immediately dismissed it. It was too big, too crowded, and H'aanit feared the use of beasts in the arena ― a wounded snow leopard might make too appealing an attraction to pass up, and by the time she arrived she would be tired and hard-pressed if the need came to defend her companion bodily.

But then what could she do?

The wind blew, cool and fresh, from the east ― and her eyes rose to look upon the peaks of the Frostlands. Her gut felt like lead. Twas true she was only two and a half days from Stillsnow, and there she could find Susanna, who had raised Master and taught him much of the ways of medicine. But it would be a grueling road, uphill and trudging through the snow, braving contrary winds and powerful wild beasts.

Linde made a small noise and H'aanit's eyes dropped to her friend, dismayed. It was a little mew, the sort she had made in cubhood when H'aanit had received her from that traveling fortune-teller. A sound of vulnerability and fear.

"Right," she exhaled, scratching Linde's fur as comfortingly as she could, then, against the pained roaring of her friend, lifting the leopard onto her shoulders. As she settled her weight across her frame, she shakily vowed, "Feare not, dear friend. We will maken it to Stillsnow ere long."

Or so she hoped, by Draefendi and all the wild gods of the Darkwood.

* * *

Alaic frowned at the intruder, his jaw set, then looked back down at his work.

"I'll be received," the intruder imperiously said. He was a pretty man ― his hair was oiled and perfumed, his fingers were heavy with rings, his clothes were richly coloured silk and satin.

Not that riches could disguise their lowborn speech. Alaic knew the type. Entitled, newly wealthy, usually through amoral means.

He wasn't going to get through.

The man's companion scoffed. "Let 'im in, y'big oaf." Then, to his richly-dressed companion, "Gods, is 'e simple?"

It was a common question. One Alaic heard often being asked to his face. He was beyond caring. He would never have claimed he was the smartest man in the world, but he was definitely not the dumbest, and that sufficed.

But as for their concern, Susanna had expressed no interest in dandies, no care for fops, and less time even for timewasters, so he was not going to test her. The door behind him would remain resolutely closed, and Alaic would continue carving his little wooden animal sculpture with unruffled patience and absorption. It was taking shape already ― he had carved out a neck and two ears, but the cuts were coarse, unrefined as yet.

"C'mon, then," the man said again, interrupting, a nasty smile coming to his lips, "fetch yer mistress t' me, boy."

Boy? With his thirty-one years, the word hardly fit. But Alaic did not even bother to snort. He found he often had the desired effect when he gave no acknowledgement of offense whatsoever. Lifting the carving knife, he pressed an experimental shaving off, trying to get the arch of the back _just_ … so.

"He mus' be deaf," the other man said, dismissively. "Jus' get around 'im and knock―"

His knuckles didn't make it to the door. Instead Alaic, towering over them both, had shoved him away, as gently as he could. The man stumbled backwards down the steps, stunned.

As expected, the two men scrambled to unsheathe their swords. So Alaic let out a sigh through his nose and delicately placed both his carving knife and his wooden sculpture on the chair he had just vacated, cracked his neck this way and that, then joined them in the street.

And adopted his loosely defensive stance.

The first man lunged predictably: sword first. Alaic sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and twisted until the sword dropped to the snow-covered cobblestones.

The other man didn't try anything. Instead, they both hurried off, shouting obscenities at him. Obscenities he didn't hear, because he was back to wondering if the muzzle on his sculpture wouldn't benefit from some softening.

This happened all the time. Every day, he spent several hours by Susanna's front door, which allowed the old lady to work in peace. Every day, he shoved unwanted visitors away, gently but firmly. Susanna the Seer ― a bunch of nonsense if ever he'd heard any. But arguing as much was pointless, and anyway Alaic was not much of a talker.

He heard the crunching of snow before he heard the grunts of effort, and those he heard before the pained purring.

Raising his eyes, he nearly dropped his work, his entire mind grinded to such a halt.

H'aanit.

Her grey eyes lifted from the ground, hunched as she was under the weight of her injured leopard. She was trembling from exertion, but when her eyes met his, they conveyed a world of emotion: fear, worry, anger, fatigue… but also elated relief.

She never said a word ― he was at her side before he even realized he was moving, lifting the great beast from her back as gently as he could, and watching her nearly sag with relief. The leopard was not fighting him, which told him all he needed to know about the state of its health. It was heavy; he ignored the pang of admiration for the young huntress that echoed within him.

"Leg," she panted, sinking to her knees in the snow. "Please… Susanna…"

He didn't reply, turning away from her to stride back up to Susanna's front door, kicking it open. The old seer barely looked up from her brew at the noise or the sudden inflow of cold air. From her little laboratory, she could see everything. Alaic came in, cleared the dining table, and placed the leopard on the surface. It lay there, listless, all trace of proud, controlled danger gone.

Susanna strode forward, rolling up her sleeves. "Linde," she recognized, at once, though her vision had been growing dull, quite like her hearing. "And where there's Linde―" Her eyes lifted, looking at the front door.

H'aanit was leaning against the door jamb, looking ready to collapse. Leaving the leopard, Alaic crossed the large room in what felt like two strides rather than the dozen he usually needed, and braced his arm under hers for support.

By the time he had gently settled her into an armchair, which she did not even protest, Susanna had finished her assessment of the leopard. At his inquisitive look, she gave a grim reply: "Snare cut and twisted socket. Quite infected. A bad turn."

"Please," H'aanit breathed, looking pale. She tried to stand, but Alaic pushed her back down with a single finger on the forehead. She was so weak she could hardly fight him, and she was so tired she did not even glare at him. "Linde…"

"Worry not, dear," Susanna said, though her voice was not nearly as light as it usually was. "You've made it home. You've done your part. Now let old Susanna do hers."

H'aanit's eyes were fixed on Linde's near-lifeless form, a worry beyond words trembling in her exhausted body. But when she shifted her gaze and caught Alaic's eyes, gratitude flickered there, and a warmth of relief that seeped deep into his chest.

She was asleep by the time he returned with hot tea.

* * *

H'aanit woke a full day later, around noon. At first, she did not recognize where she was. The bed was soft, the blankets clean, and it seemed she was roused as from a cloud. A vase of dry winterblossoms sat on the windowsill, and the clean, simple air of the room felt alien to her.

The ache in her muscles came to her at the same time as the memories, and with them the renewed fear.

Linde. Oh gods of the wood.

She swung out of bed and was immediately dizzy. Rallying, she assessed her physical state. She was alive. Stiff as a board, and her muscles felt tired and bruised all the way to the bone. But she was alive.

She was barefoot, and wearing an old night chemise ― thick and stiff from too much time spent in a cupboard. Susanna's old things, perhaps. Her hair was still braided, but it was a mess, she noted, glancing into a mirror.

Absently, she hoped it was Susanna who had changed her ― and Alaic who had carried her upstairs, for the old woman's sake, though the thought of being transported like some broken thing made her heart clench with shame.

No matter. Her pride was nothing. If something had happened to Linde, she needed to know. She would not stand for another moment of anguish.

She padded to the door and slowly swung it open. The house was silent. Or rather, it was devoid of conversation, but it wasn't silent. Down a narrow flight of stairs, she could hear the conspicuous sounds of cooking: clinking and cutting, boiling and stirring, and the unmistakable sound of someone moving about without care for noise.

She made it down the stairs, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep.

Linde was curled up on a bed of blankets, her back leg in a cabbage poultice. She was breathing ― alive, her lithe stomach rising and falling in deep recovery.

The shock of relief made H'aanit weak in the knees. Exhaling shakily, she stumbled as she made for her companion.

She'd have sprawled to the floor had a firm hand not grabbed her arm to steady her.

She looked up into unfathomable brown eyes. Alaic. Reliable, silent Alaic. And although everything about him seemed calculated to inspire fear, all she felt was reassurance.

"Thanks be to thee," she whispered, knowing words were wholly insufficient.

He studied her, his expression unreadable. Then he said, his first words she'd heard from him since arriving, "The food is ready."

Her stomach growled and she chuckled. "It seemeth thou can guesse my every need. Susanna is blessed to have thee with her."

He was silent for a moment, then shook his head, as though to clear it, and motioned for her to take a seat.

"Is my granddaughter awake?" Susanna asked, peering around a crate full of potatoes. "I imagine you're hungry."

"I am," H'aanit replied, sighing. "Thou must forgive me ― I fell asleep yesterday and did not even thanke thee." Her eyes went back to Linde, who was sleeping soundly. "I have never been so gladde of my choice of destination."

"She is a strong one, Linde is," Susanna agreed. "But I hope you were in no hurry to race elsewhere, my dear." Alaic placed a bowl of warm stew in front of H'aanit that smelled of comfort and home and made her mouth water. "Linde is resting now, but she will need time to recover from that awful dislocation."

H'aanit nodded, heartsick. "I cannot thanke thee enough. I have no desire to see Linde injured further."

"At least two weeks of observation will be necessary," Susanna sternly said, as Alaic served her next, and made himself a bowl last. "And thereafter, some gentle exercise, I think."

"It shall be done," H'aanit vowed. "I will taken rooms at the inn―"

"Nonsense," Susanna barked, offended in the utmost. "Was our guest room not welcoming?"

H'aanit managed a sheepish smile. "I confesse I doe not want to intruden further."

Susanna glanced at Alaic, who remained stoically focused on each spoonful of stew, then back at H'aanit, an inscrutable look on her face. "You are not intruding, my dear. In fact, I daresay your presence shall be most refreshing."

H'aanit peered at Alaic. The bodyguard was still quiet across from her. "If Alaic believeth he can tolerate my presence." He had once been an assassin, and she had, after all, trounced him quite soundly the first time she had met Susanna. Or rather, she thought, glancing at Linde, who was still sleeping, she _and_ Linde had.

Alaic finished his spoonful, then looked at her, his deep brown eyes assessing. Then, he shrugged. "You should stay."

"My," Susanna remarked, cheerfully, "how verbose he is today!" She leaned towards H'aanit conspiratorially. "So you see, it means you ought to remain."

And for the first time in days, H'aanit smiled, genuinely. Alaic's spoon clinked loudly against his bowl, and she glanced at him, but he was studiously focused on his meal, and did not seem to notice the satisfied grin on Susanna's face.

But even H'aanit, who _did_ notice, wasn't sure what to make of it.

* * *

The days after that started slow. She would wake in the guest room, which was across the house from Susanna's ― separated by various storage attics ― but down the hall from Alaic's own quarters. She had not performed a full investigation, but it appeared he rose with the dawn and retired an hour before midnight, keeping even shorter nights than she did. Susanna, however, typically tended to sleep in and go to bed early, which left H'aanit plenty of time to herself.

So she had taken to watching Alaic.

The quiet man's days seemed busy: he either kept guard at the door or worked various odd jobs around the property, shoveling snow, clipping branches, running errands, chopping firewood...

For instance, she caught him chopping firewood on the second day, and was amazed at the fact that he did so in naught but a thin cotton shirt, even by frigid temperatures. H'aanit, having herself had to cut wood during her excursions, knew how grueling the task could be, and how much heat a body could generate while doing so, but there was really something to be said, she had mused over a steaming cup of tea, about watching a big, muscular man do it.

In a conversation with Tressa, Ophilia and Primrose, she'd once confessed that she had only one requirement in a man. Thinking back on those days now, she wanted to smile to herself. Tressa had misunderstood the question, Primrose had been her usual secretive self, Ophilia had been idealistic― and H'aanit had confessed to only one desire: that whomever she chose should be stronger than she was.

The others had insinuated that she would search a long time, but H'aanit had not dared admit there were men aplenty who fit the description. Indeed, women too. It seemed she had lacked the words, or perhaps she had not wanted the attention of her fellow travelers upon her for too long. Either way, she had not explained herself.

Strength was a variable, H'aanit mused, watching Alaic work, raising his axe then bringing it down with controlled force. It was a multifaceted asset. It wasn't just ability in combat, although H'aanit would be the first to agree it was its most common definition. Strength was a hundred things ― an intuition in the face of cluelessness, kindness in the face of cruelty, hope in the face of despair. Strength was leaving one's hometown in a sister's stead to perform a holy ritual. Strength was the courage to leave one's parents and friends behind in the pursuit of adventure. Strength was recognizing weaknesses in oneself and in others. Strength was braving discovery, facing the past, taunting the future. Strength was opening oneself to others when the world was nothing but betrayal.

Strength, H'aanit also thought, was having the needed eloquence to describe strength, which she did not have. It seemed when the time came to speak, especially to her fellow travelers, who were all so much more verbose and earnest and impulsive, she oft found herself tongue-tied.

But she liked them, she thought, returning her attention to her tea to avoid noticing that when Alaic breathed hard, a cloud of white fog formed in front of his mouth. She liked her friends, for that was what they were. She liked Cyrus' wisdom, despite his tendency to lecture, and she liked Alfyn's frankness, despite his embarrassing forwardness. She liked Therion and his callousness, and Olberic for his old-fashioned courtesies. She liked Ophilia's warmth and Tressa's genuine excitement, and Primrose's worldliness. She had none of those attributes, and admired them in others.

Alaic ran a hand through his sweaty hair and it stuck up at various angles. H'aanit caught herself stifling a smile. Now there was a man with even fewer manners than she did. Somehow, despite everything he had once been, that endeared him to her.

There was also the fact that he was built like a tower, all broad and muscular, with a handsome square-jawed face ― not that she was looking again.

Sighing, she returned her focus to Linde, who was napping. The injury, the shock and the stress had made her companion particularly drowsy, but Susanna had assured her this was good and healthy, for all creatures needed rest for a swift recovery.

Still, H'aanit was at a loss. She was not accustomed to staying in one place with naught to do but wait, and no Linde to speak to. However did other people do it every day? Did they not yearn for the wind on their faces and the ground swiftly vanishing under their feet?

The door opened, and in came Alaic, his arms full of firewood. He tracked snow into the house and was covered in flecks of bark and wood chips, and a thin sheen of perspiration covered his brow. Somehow, those things did not make him less appealing. A concept H'aanit noted with some reluctance.

His eyes flicked over to her, but he carried on his task, dropping the wood into the stack by the fireplace in firm, economical movements. Not graceful, this one, but able, with a precise and exacting sort of motion.

He was on his way back out the door when H'aanit realized she was following him. He noticed, but did not acknowledge. From this vantage point, she saw his cotton shirt clung to him where he had gotten warm, and that he was muscular, much more broadly so than she had first expected. He always wore a thick fur coat, which masked his true form, and H'aanit had, wrongly, she now realized, assumed he relied on his size and weight to push intruders away from Susanna's door.

She joined him by the chopping block and began to pile wood into her arms, same as him. They worked in silence, with only the crunching of snow underfoot and the laboured breathing of work to pierce the dampened sound of snow falling around them.

Then, when her arms were full, she straightened, and found he was looking at her. His own stack was perhaps half again as large as hers, and H'aanit felt an inkling of irritation. Most men, Master Z'aanta had reminded her time and again, were generally stronger than most women. H'aanit had wanted to argue, and she still remembered Master's hearty laughter at her protestations.

One cannot change the state of one's birth, Z'aanta had said, in a rare show of quiet wisdom. But it would be enough for H'aanit to be more resilient, more agile, more persistent. In many fights, such things sufficed.

It had sufficed, H'aanit mulishly recalled as they silently went back to the house, when she had needed to fight her way past Alaic several years ago. He _had yielded_ , after all, hadn't he?

But seeing his strength now, seeing the expanse of muscle on his back, and recalling his half-hearted sword swings― Suddenly it seemed she had been robbed of a true victory.

They piled the wood onto the stack, still in silence. The pile was now comfortably high, and would last at least another few days, which was satisfying enough.

But Alaic made for the door again, so she asked, "Where art thou going?"

He paused, glancing back at her, and said, "I'm off to train."

Having moved the firewood, H'aanit had worked up a sweat, and realized she missed exerting herself. She nodded. "Could I joine thee?"

Alaic studied her. It seemed he was continually evaluating, assessing, watching. Then, averting his eyes, he said, "If you want," and continued on out the door.

She hurried after him, disappointed to see him pull on a woolen vest. He went around the house, out of sight from the street, and into a cleared area near the back of the garden wall. The ground here was trampled, the snow gone; she could see hard frozen dirt.

"Dost thou spar?" She asked, as he unlocked a storage shed and revealed a row of neat training weapons.

Alaic nodded. He picked a long spear and hefted it. "Would you like a warm-up round?"

H'aanit smiled and nodded, taking up a spear of her own. She was not nearly as handy with the spear as Master, let alone Sir Olberic, or even Tressa, but it was never a bad idea to train.

Alaic made a few experimental warm-up stretches, then calmly settled into a defensive stance. "Alright, then," he said. He had a warm, pleasant voice, unaffected and unaccented. "Ready when you are."

So he wanted her to attack. H'aanit stretched her neck this way, then that. "Art thou sure?" She asked, teasing. "T'would be a shame to knocke thee down again so soon."

Alaic's eyes changed, then, and a glint of amusement flickered in them, ever so briefly. "I like my chances better when your leopard's claws are tucked away."

Was that so? H'aanit's cheeks flushed. Did he think she had cheated, then, that first time? She got into position, feeling a familiar fire kindled inside her. "I heartily assure thee," she softly said, "that I am an able fighter in mine own right."

Alaic didn't reply, but she saw his fingers tighten on his practice spear, and now she was fairly sure the corner of his mouth had twitched upward.

She blew a strand of pale red hair out of her face, and made a first lunge, which he deflected easily. So she tried a few more, all of which were parried with hardly a flinch.

She took a step back, studied him, pacing to the side. He turned as she went, not particularly covering, so she moved back, and he dropped his guard. She leaped, and too late realized he'd dropped his guard purposely, because he suddenly repelled her in a single blow, the side of his lance pressing into her stomach and pushing her to the ground, harmlessly.

Embarrassingly.

She pushed herself back to her feet, dusting her backside, and shot him an annoyed look. He did not dignify her with even a look of triumph. She retrieved her lance, lunged more carefully this time, and was deflected.

"Dost thou ever attacken?" She asked, huffing.

Alaic shrugged a wide shoulder. "I don't want to hurt you."

She planted her spear into the frozen ground, annoyed. "What wouldst thou doe in my absence?"

He was silent for a moment, then raised his spear. As she stepped away to give him space, he began a series of careful, firm exercises.

And H'aanit realized she had grossly misjudged him.

He had once claimed to be a less-than-nothing waste of space, until Susanna had saved him from suicide. H'aanit could still recall his admission in the woods by Victor's Hollow, the dejection, the self-loathing. Everything he did now, he claimed, was in service to Susanna, for a debt yet to be repaid.

His devotion to his craft showed.

Each motion was controlled. More than that, they revealed power ― both in ability and in force. He moved with natural ease, each lunge spearing an unseen opponent mercilessly, then stepping back, breathing, and starting anew. He was well rehearsed, but mostly he was deadly.

She had seen this sort of skill before ― Sir Olberic was a natural with a lance, and many of his exercises were similar to these: strong, controlled, uncompromising. She had often marvelled at his firm, steady jabs. They were not agile, but they had a finesse of their own, the kind that promised they would find their mark if needed.

The alarming consideration haunted her, however: if this was his true level of skill, why, then, had he yielded, all those years ago?

Alaic finished a set, then stepped away from the middle of his practice yard, and began to catch his breath. She had not noticed him moving from one sequence to the next, but she realized she had been gawking, as plainly as the girl she had once been, admiring Master Z'aanta's ability with a bow.

"You don't fight with the spear, usually," Alaic said, and H'aanit startled a little.

"Nay," she admitted. "The axe and the bow aren my tools of predilection."

He nodded at her. "Then pick one."

She glanced inside the shed and hesitated. He had a collection of possible axes: broad cleavers, long spearaxes, several light hatchets, and even a slim tomahawk. She chose a hatchet, testing its weight. It was fair, heavy at the end that mattered, and it sliced the air like a whip when she twirled it.

She came to the center of his practice yard and asked, "Did Susanna aske that thou trainen? For safety?"

Alaic watched her. For the first time, it felt like he was looking beyond the surface, for he had revealed unknown depths, and she now felt he could see her own. At length, he said, "I made my own decision. Susanna was being pestered, but she would have hired someone if I had not taken the task for myself."

Something about his words made H'aanit's stomach flop like a fish. "Thy sense of duty is commendable." Would she have done the same, after the shame he'd experienced?

He merely looked at her, and now his gaze felt like a physical thing, a tangible force.

Rather than think on the matter, H'aanit averted her gaze and began to work through her own exercises. Better to focus on her body, to not think about his eyes, or his apparently deadly skill.

And the fact that she had been cheated out of a worthy victory...

She swung the axe experimentally, feeling the way her muscles worked with her. The more she focused, the less she thought about him, and soon enough she was performing a complete set, each step careful and quiet, each rustle of clothing measured, each swing potentially fatal.

By the time she finished, she had worked up a sweat and was panting. It felt good to move. It felt good to be back to her habits, odd though they might be. Linde had consumed so much of her thoughts and caused so many worries she was relishing the opportunity to return to normalcy.

She was smiling when she turned back to Alaic.

He was leaning against his storage shed, watching her, his arms crossed. H'aanit's smile faltered.

Draefendi but he was handsome. And yet, he always looked so… serious. It ought to have disturbed her. Indeed, he tended to alarm others, who feared him or derided him.

But what worried H'aanit was how comfortable she was in his quiet presence. Worse, how looking at him watching her in return made her feel… vulnerable.

Could one feel vulnerable in a good way? She wondered. It was certainly anathema to everything she had ever pursued. But knowing him now, seeing him in his element, and witnessing his ability― it all had a very strange effect on her. Her breath was not slowing down, and she felt warm, unusually so, almost feverish. She could even hear her blood pounding in her ears.

And there was also the fact that it seemed her very breasts felt heavy in her clothes.

"Are you alright?" He asked, and if he was asking, there was no question she looked unwell.

She was unsure. Now that she thought on the matter, it was certain his gaze had a destabilizing effect upon her nerves. It seemed all she could think about were his hands, his arms, and what they might feel like, and by all the gods of the wood, his eyes were still upon her, devouring.

He stepped forward.

A jolt of uncharacteristic fear seized her. Not fear for her life, which was the most worrisome part, for he looked predatory indeed. And not fear for her actions, which were to freeze like a deer in sights ― a costly mistake if her life were at risk.

But what else was she feeling, then, if not fear? What other sensation would explain the way her chest heaved, and her face felt flush, and her head felt so light? If not due to fear, then why was she feeling trapped?

"I... think I should aske Susanna," H'aanit admitted, taking a step back when he took another step forward. "Please, doe not stop on my account."

He closed the distance between them, peering down at her, which was intimidating because she was quite tall, after all, and something in his eyes flickered like a flame, ever so briefly. It had to be a flame, because she was growing warm.

She realized she was holding her breath. Was it fear, still?

Or anticipation?

"Alright," he finally said, softly, and she realized he was close enough to feel his warm breath in the cold air. It seemed to thaw her immobility and curl all the way inside her, coiling around parts of her that had no business participating in a training exercise.

How was a single whispered word enough to make her so hot and bothered? She couldn't stop looking at him. Why was she suddenly unable to speak? The last time they'd spoken, she had felt nothing. Or perhaps she had felt inclined to tease him, and be bewildered by his quiet watchfulness.

But three years had passed, after all, and he seemed… different. Not physically ― although she suddenly felt she saw him better― nor behaviourally ― although it suddenly seemed that he could make her weak with a single look...

H'aanit wondered if, perhaps, it wasn't Alaic who had changed… but herself.

"I shall returnen to the house," she murmured, and watched the way their breaths mingled in front of her face.

He didn't reply. His brown eyes studied her, as always. Was he leaning in?

She broke away before she could find out, heart pounding.

Foolish, she assured herself. He was merely concerned, just as he had been back then, accompanying her to those woods on Susanna's word, and remaining by their edge until she returned.

He watched her go. She was sure of it. She could feel his gaze on her back like a brand.

To be fair, she was uncomfortably aware of him. In all parts of her body.

And worse, H'aanit added another symptom to her list of sudden and alarming physical ailments: a certain sense of regret.

* * *

Alaic was fine.

Everything, in Alaic's world, was perfectly normal and routine. There was no concern, no strange dissatisfaction, no great misery for him to dread, and certainly nothing that kept his mind distracted.

Except, of course, the obvious.

His eyes slid to Linde, who was chewing on a sausage, while Susanna scratched her fur.

And, next to them both, the huntress.

Alaic ignored the memory of her eyes on him as he trained. He ignored the recollection of her firm, violent movements, the way her entire body danced when she practiced with an axe.

He ignored the way she had flushed so prettily under his gaze, and the way she hadn't bolted when he'd approached. People tended to bolt from him ― a product of his size, his strength and his sinister ex-assassin looks.

He especially ignored the thought of her wide hips, her long legs, her ample―

He forced his gaze away from body attributes that he wasn't thinking about at all, especially in terms of softness, silkiness or size. He was better than this. She was a guest in his mistress' house. She deserved to feel safe, and safe didn't typically involve hungry stares from men like him, no matter how reformed they were, or how desperately they were trying not to look.

Because by all the gods, he was trying not to look. He really was. But damn if she wasn't everywhere, all the time, just begging to be looked at.

It wasn't his fault. She was following him. Day after day. She exercised with him. She helped him with his chores, and sure, it was nice to have help once in a while ― not that he complained the rest of the time ― but it was difficult to go about his day and _not_ look, not when she was so painfully, obviously _there_.

Still, after that disastrous first time, he had made valiant efforts not to look. He wasn't stupid, no matter what people in town might think. He knew he made her uncomfortable. He always did, he reflected, bitterly.

Gods, but he wanted to look. He was only human, and red and hot blooded, at that. And she triggered something in him that was decidedly _not_ composed, _not_ generous, _not_ righteous, _not_ gentle.

She made him _hungry_.

But, he reminded himself, he wasn't going to do anything. He wasn't going to do anything, and her leopard would recover, and she would leave again and he wasn't going to do or say anything that would make her uncomfortable, no matter how many hours a night he spent staring at the ceiling of his room, thinking about the fact that she was so close, right down the hall, possibly tangled in a mess of bedsheets.

He needed to calm down. Shoving his imaginings aside, he kept chopping the carrots, firmly devoted to his task.

But the inner voice kept murmuring, and she was right there, her profile illuminated by candlelight, like some legendary sylve, all beauty and pride, all wildness and innocence.

He was a damn idiot. He was no better than a stupid adolescent, impressed with a pretty face and curves that were completely wasted on women who spent their whole time away in the woods when they could be right here to be provided for, dammit.

Maybe it had been too long, he wondered, sliding the sliced carrots into the pot. How long had it been since the last time he'd been with someone? Four years? No, more like five? Well, that certainly explained his fierce attraction to her, which had gut-punched him from the very beginning. Lesser men would have gone mad. And just because he had been picturing that determined, impulsive, purposeful huntress for the past three years didn't mean he couldn't have gotten company in the meantime.

But Alaic had always been perfectly fine taking care of himself. Or so he thought.

Inexorably, his eyes slid again towards H'aanit, who was amiably chatting with Susanna. They had moved on to stemming lilyblooms, a key ingredient in Susanna's pain relieving teas. Her fingers moved nimbly, detaching the flowers from their stems with ginger ability, scarcely looking at them, and Alaic stifled a surge of foolish want.

"Twasn't all bad," she was saying. She had spent the better part of an hour detailing her journey alongside those seven other travelers. She and Susanna usually spent their evenings like this, discussing her companions and their adventures. "Their company was welcome."

Alaic had listened intently, despite himself. He knew her companions, though not well ― Therion the thief, with his cocky smirks and quick fingers; Cyrus the scholar, with his absurdly handsome looks and guileless compliments; Alfyn the apothecary, with his rugged charm and cheerful competence; and Sir Olberic the Unbending Blade, with his gallant fervour and history of extraordinary acts of bravery.

Alaic didn't like them. He preferred her female companions ― sweet Ophilia, mysterious Primrose, innocent Tressa. They made for safer topics of conversation, if Alaic's blood pressure could be trusted.

"You achieved great things together," Susanna conceded. "But it saddens me that you have since parted ways."

H'aanit shrugged, the fur lining of her vest shifting. "Parted ways," she agreed, "but we nevertheless reconvenen every year in a different city." Her eyes took on a distant look that might have been wistful. "To catchen up and reminiscen. Last year, twas Rippletide. This year, we shall meeten in Bolderfall. Three months hence."

Susanna nodded, pleasantly. "Linde should be recovered by then," she said.

H'aanit smiled gratefully, and once again Alaic felt his gut squeeze. Gods, but she had a pretty smile. It illuminated her face and changed her from a forbidding goddess of the Darkwood to a charming girl of the country. There was certainly something fae about it.

His knife slipped and he nearly cut his finger off.

This would not do, he considered, refocusing. He needed to get her out of his system. He couldn't spend another full night thinking about her presence down the hall, trying to imagine what the moonlight did to her skin.

Or what he would like to do to her skin.

"Perhaps I'll send Alaic along with you to Bolderfall," Susanna said, and Alaic was forced to return his attention to them, almost reluctantly. "The Cliftlands have herbs and dusts I will eventually have to replenish."

Now there was a pretty torture: being forced to travel with the huntress and sleep near her, with not even walls to keep him from giving suit to his dangerous ideas. He frowned at Susanna. "I can have them retrieved by courier."

Susanna waved his suggestion off as though he'd commented on the weather. "Worry not, Alaic dear. I could no sooner send you away than go without my teas." She leaned towards H'aanit, whose brows rose. "My joints, you see."

H'aanit nodded politely, though Alaic was sure she did not see the catastrophe she had just narrowly escaped.

Because now Alaic wondered if she ever bathed in rivers, and what the water looked like pearling on her skin. And if he was wondering about that, then he was fairly sure that, on the road with her, he would be tempted to find out.

"Vegetables are ready," he grunted. He needed to get out. He put his knife away, grabbed his coat, and strode towards the door.

"Where art thou going?" H'aanit asked, turning in her chair, and Alaic felt a magnetic pull that he desperately ignored. "Might I―"

"Let him go, H'aanit dear," Susanna said, shooting him a knowing smile that made Alaic angrily question his loyalty to the old witch. "He is a solitary man, and I think we've teased him enough for the nonce."

H'aanit's look of puzzlement somehow only made her prettier, which made Alaic angrier. "Teased?" She echoed.

Alaic didn't stick around to hear Susanna's explanation. The air outside was pleasantly cold, biting at his skin and reminding him to keep calm. He inhaled, trying to quiet the raging of his blood, then descended the front steps to go around the house.

Right now, he needed to hit something.

Later, when the house was asleep, he would take care of his... personal business. Hopefully that would help him get over the thought of H'aanit bathing or H'aanit smiling or H'aanit breathing ― existing, really.

He felt dangerous at the moment. His heart was pounding in his ears, his mind was a sorry mess of lewd images, and he was fairly sure that if anyone bothered him, he'd snap.

So it was only perfect that the silk-wearing ass was back, armed and in numbers.

"Tha's him!" The man called out, as his group of friends ― mercenaries? ― approached the house. "Tha's the simpleton what nearly kill't me t'other day!"

The group of six men approached, looking murderous. They entered into the garden, crushing the snowy flowerbed where Susanna had expressed the desire to plant turnips next spring. They were coming for him, armed with brand new swords and, in one case, a nasty-looking hammer.

Alaic watched them approach, thinking.

He had spent the better part of his life trying to atone for the extreme violence of his childhood.

For the most part, he had succeeded.

It was only in moments like these that he felt himself reconsidering his vow against killing.

Still, he found himself selecting a dulled sword, stifling a surge of violent satisfaction.

He was better than this, he reminded himself. He was better than his primal urges, murderous and lustful alike. Susanna had taught him to rescue himself, to reach higher, to leave behind the assassin and become a proper man, someone who not only had a whole range of emotions, but could also control the way he reacted to them. She had been like an elderly mother, despite the task the Obsidians had given him. He owed her the effort.

He hadn't been tested like this in a long time, though.

Maybe he would hurt them. Just a little.

* * *

H'aanit saw the trouble coming before Susanna could even say a word. The group outside was not making a particular effort to be quiet. The shutters on neighbouring houses were closing, as though to ward them away, and H'aanit knew it was serious.

She was on her feet in an instant, axe at the ready, and strode to the door with her heart in her throat.

"Honestly, child," Susanna called out, looking for all the world as though such assaults happened every day ― and perhaps they did ― "let them be. Alaic will handle them."

It was touching that Susanna had such faith in Alaic's ability. H'aanit, however, could not stand by and watch him be pummeled, no matter how many lickings he gave back.

By the time she reached the melee, Alaic had already dispatched one of them. H'aanit bent over the prone body of his victim, checking, and felt a pulse, faint but present.

Not for the first time, she looked on Alaic with renewed awe. He was a flurry of strikes, pushing away every assailant without spilling blood. Oh, they were getting bruised, but considering that they intended to stick him like a pin cushion, it was admirable that he was trying so very much not to kill. And succeeding.

In that moment, H'aanit hated him a little for his nobility. It always complicated things.

Reaching out, she seized the collar of the nearest intruder and pulled, sending him scrambling for balance as he fell backwards. He landed arse first on the snowy ground, and H'aanit leveled the sharp end of her axe at him.

"Begone," she growled, showing him, very steadily, how well sharpened her axe was. "Lest I give thee a very close shave."

He did not need further convincing. As he scrambled out of Susanna's yard, H'aanit turned back to the rest of the scuffle. Alaic was defending admirably, but he was still one man with a dulled blade against four with murderous intentions.

"Haven you no honour?" She called, hoping to distract at least one of them. "You aren't welcome here."

The man with the silk shirt turned, a nasty snarl on his face, and saw her axe. The leader, she thought, if his rings could be deemed a sign of wealth. He strode over to her with determination, his sword at the ready.

"Git here, bitch," he said, spittle and sweat flying off his chin.

H'aanit dodged his swing, but was unpleasantly surprised to find that his anger made him stronger. She parried his next attack, and was already on the defensive. Still, he was furious, and his moves were made predictable for it ― there was little effort on his part to disguise his intent.

She dodged and parried to the best of her ability, before seizing a gardening bucket that had filled with icemelt water and slamming it bluntly into the size of his face. Water splashed around them, freezing, but H'aanit scarcely felt it.

Now the anger in the man's eyes was beyond words. On and on he thrashed, each sword swing so powerful they rattled in H'aanit's teeth― but she parried as well as she could, and gave thanks that her bone-handle axe had been so well reinforced.

Until suddenly she was stuck against the side of the house, between a wood stack and the outer chimney, and she realized she had to strike back or face grievous wounds.

She swung, hitting her attacker with the flat of her axe rather than its edge, hoping to knock him out. He staggered, stumbling, and she freed herself from the corner where she had been trapped.

Only to run straight into Alaic's chest.

His hand reached out to steady her, and he looked down at her, wildly. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, breathlessly, then hauled back and swung her axe, hitting one of his own attackers. A glancing blow only, but enough to make the bastard drop his weapon and clutch at the cut, howling.

Now the leader was back, his sweaty silk shirt ridiculous for the weather.

"Stay close," Alaic commanded, and H'aanit felt an inkling of annoyance with him.

"I can fighten as well as thee," she grunted ― when suddenly another assailant grabbed her by the braid and yanked, throwing her to the ground with a cry.

She felt his boot kick into her stomach and a glancing blow to her arm, but she curled over and swung at his legs, forcing him to sidestep.

"Wily little bitch," the man spat, but he added nothing else because Alaic was suddenly upon him, pummeling him with sword hits, a veritable wall of violence, and H'aanit considered herself lucky his sword was dull, or else she'd have been showered in guts and blood.

She returned to the fight slightly dazed, but angry. They were two against ― she counted ― three, because one was down for the count, she had run another off, and the man she had cut was still whinging. Now the odds seemed much more palatable.

Alaic was busy with two of them, who clearly considered him the greater threat, so H'aanit turned to the third, who was looking increasingly hesitant. "Comen on, then," she purred menacingly.

The attack he gave her was half-hearted, and now that H'aanit was properly invested in the fight, he was trivial to dispatch. She bowled him over, then kicked away his weapon, and pursued him until he scampered away from the property.

She was catching her breath and ready to turn back…

When she heard Alaic grunt, his breath cut short.

Her eyes flew back to him ― between the two remaining attackers, his guard had slipped, and the hammer had hit him in the ribs.

H'aanit didn't wait to see whether there was any blood. She cried out in anger, and rushed at the hammer-wielding attacker, slamming the side of her axe against his ear. The man's head tilted sideways and he was suddenly on the ground, where she began punching him.

The silk-shirted leader grabbed her by the collar of her fur coat and pulled her off him, and though she was sure he was shouting obscenities, all H'aanit heard was her own breathing and grunting, her own words of insult.

And then, just as suddenly as he'd grabbed her, she was free, stumbling a few steps away. She turned.

Alaic had just finished knocking out the leader, using a particularly powerful blow with the pommel of his sword.

The running footsteps of a small contingent of town guards entering the courtyard was, as always, it seemed, a little late. By now, Susanna's yard was littered with moaning or unconscious men, while H'aanit and a bent-over Alaic stood over them, ready to knock them back to the ground should they get any brave ideas.

"Criminey," the head guard said, seeing the grounds, "more persistent than the usual rabble, eh, Alaic?"

Alaic was still catching his breath, but he nodded. "Aye. For all the good that did them."

The guard glanced at H'aanit, then back at Alaic. "She one of theirs, or one of yours?"

"Mine," Alaic grunted.

"Fair, then," the guard said, nodding to his men. "'Round them up, then, lads. It's a night in gaol for the lot. I imagine they'll be happy to see their escaped friends again." He smiled, for H'aanit and Alaic's benefit: "We caught runaway combattants down the street, by the way. We'll give 'em time to rethink their life decisions."

"They tried to killen us," H'aanit said, frowning.

The guard nodded. "A common enough problem for ol' Alaic, I should say. Still," the guard added, turning to Alaic fully in a fair approximation of due diligence, "would you like to press charges, sir?"

"They can go free for all I care," Alaic grunted. "Make sure they know that next time I'll have a proper weapon."

The defeated attackers ― the ones who were still conscious, at least ― blanched. H'aanit scowled at them, but added nothing while the guards dragged them off.

Then, she whirled on Alaic.

"What wilt thou doe if they should returnen?" She asked, sharply.

Alaic turned away. "Like I said. I'll have a real sword next time."

She watched him go. He was limping, favouring that side of his ribs where the hammer had struck him. Her countenance softened a little. She followed after him while he bent to collect the weapons on the ground.

"Thou art hurt."

True to form, Alaic didn't reply. H'aanit studied his profile, but he was deliberately opaque.

"They crushed thy ribs," she insisted. "I saw it."

Alaic's hand went to his side absently, but rather than respond to her statement, he said, "You should go back inside. Check on your companion."

Linde?

 _Linde_? He was asking her to check on _Linde_? H'aanit shook her head in disbelief.

"Art thou mad?" She reached up to place a hand on his forehead. "Did they hit thy head? Hast thou got a fever?"

He stopped moving, and now suddenly his eyes were upon her. "I'm fine," he growled, his tone a warning. "They hit me with the blunt; I've had worse. Now go back inside."

He was angry with her. Angry! Why in the world should he be angry with her? "I will not; not until Susanna has had a look at you."

He reached out and grabbed her hand, the one she was still holding up, and used it to yank her close.

Very close.

Suddenly, their breaths were mingling and H'aanit felt his heat through her winter clothes. It seemed she was often stuck like this, nearly pressed against him.

And it was a telling betrayal that her heart was pounding in her ribcage. Could he feel it? They were certainly close enough.

But Alaic was not paying attention to her heart rate. He was angry. "I'm fine," he growled. "Mind your own business."

It was difficult to mind her own business when he was right there, so close that his heaving chest was almost brushing against hers. "I meant merely to help―"

"You got involved in a fight that wasn't yours," Alaic said, softly, menacingly. "You could have been seriously hurt. I'm used to it, you're not. I was handling it."

"Indeed," H'aanit said, deadpan, aware that she was channeling Therion's own brand of sarcasm. "Six against one seemed a perfectly fair fight."

Something flickered in Alaic's deep brown eyes. Something she saw because she was so close she could see it as clearly as the moon. A single flash of something wild, violent, desperately contained. Something that made her breath hitch.

She knew that hunger. It echoed inside of her like a gong.

Did Alaic see the light of recognition in her eyes? Was that why he suddenly averted his own gaze?

She was about to say something when he released her, turning away. His sudden departure for the shed made her stumble backwards.

"Don't do it again," he firmly said.

H'aanit scowled, unable to explain why his dismissal made her feel so strangely bereft. She stomped back to the house, wondering whether this was what Master had meant when he'd told her men were stubborn fools.

It had to be, she raged. Because why else did her blood pound so loudly in her ears?

* * *

Alaic was in trouble.

He was in pain, he was enraged, and he was losing his usual firm grip on sanity.

He locked the weapons he had into the garden shed, his hands trembling. Part of it was the rush of battle leaving him, he knew. Another part was fear for himself, Susanna and H'aanit. Mostly H'aanit.

A non-negligible part of it was raw fury that they had been attacked and that the intruders had dared lay a finger on her. It took everything he had not to stalk over to the town gaol and dismember a man or two.

Not that he was going to. He was the picture of calm.

Except when H'aanit looked at him with those eyes, from so close he could see each of her lashes. Full of fear, or something like it.

Leaning his forehead against the wood paneling of the shed, Alaic let out a long breath. Everything hurt. His pride, his head, his neck, his shoulders, his back, his ribs ― gods be damned but that hammer blow had _hurt_ …

And a part of his anatomy that had been no use at all in the fight hurt too, for other reasons.

It wasn't his fault, though. H'aanit had been right there. Right there, alive, unharmed, mostly, and she was still breathless and flushed from battle, her hair was a wild mess, and she had expressed concern for him.

What was he supposed to do?

Not pull her in close and consider kissing her, for one. Shoo her off, instead. He was fairly sure that was the wisest thing to do. Who knew what would have happened if he'd held her close one more moment?

It wasn't easy to do, though. H'aanit's sense of self-preservation seemed rather poorly trained, for a huntress. Did she not see the danger in him? Did she not sense the madness boiling inside, the need, the want? Hell, if Alaic hadn't known any better, he'd have imagined she was doing it on purpose, taunting him with those little breath hitches, those expressions of concern…

The more she followed him around, getting into his fights and helping with his chores, the less control he would have.

It _wasn't_ his fault, he told himself again, insistently. He was helpless when it came to H'aanit of S'warkii. He had been helpless from the first, and not only because Susanna had warned him not to harm hunters of the Darkwood. H'aanit had been so _obviously_ that upon approaching him, three years ago, with her furs and her giant leopard and her wildness.

She had tried to provoke him, as all the other visitors did, and blast him but he'd wanted to know if she fought as well as she spoke, if she moved as well as her feline companion did. And he'd earned himself a nice tumble into the snow for it that still made him smile ruefully, three years later.

She was fierce, it was true, and earnest, in her own quiet way. It was easy to like her, beyond her looks ― not that he could discount their potent effect on him.

And she had no idea, clearly, that she looked... astonishing. Most beautiful women did. It was impossible not to know, when so many men made it their business to shout it at them.

Had H'aanit spent so much time in the woods, on her own lonesome journeys, that she had grown up completely unaware of her beauty? Of the fact that her hair looked like rose gold, that her lashes were impossibly long, that her mouth had perfect heart-shaped lips? Did she know how her cheeks flushed in the cold? Did she know her waist flared into hips no man should have in sight while he tried to hunt?

She had to be unaware. When she had closed in on him, after returning from the Whitewood with that sheaf of herb-of-grace, and thanked him for his concern― by all the gods, why had he even waited for her then? He was pathetic ― she had scarcely looked flirtatious. She'd been honest, gracious, if a little amused.

He had hurried away, tongue-tied, and been enraptured ever since.

And now this. This foolish business with the thugs.

In truth, he was grateful. Without her, there was little doubt he'd have sustained more injuries than a painful bruise to the ribs. But he still found himself wishing she hadn't joined in. There was no describing the way he'd felt, seeing her cornered against the house wall, or curled under the boots of his attackers.

And there was no justification for the rage that had taken over. Stifling the urge to kill had taken every ounce of his self-control.

She was dangerous for him. By being worthy of saving, she put his entire life into jeopardy.

And still. Alaic felt the corner of his lips rise, remembering the fierce aggression on her face, the thoughtless way she'd joined him, because of course she would. How fearless she had been ― how glorious her fighting.

It did not make it any easier to stop wanting her, damn it all.

Willing himself to get it together, Alaic pulled away from the shed and considered his options.

For one, he could pretend everything was perfectly fine and that he didn't secretly fantasize about moving against her ― inside her. This would involve a lot of dissembling and effort on his part, and would likely lead to a ridiculous amount of frustration and self-care at night, when no one would see or hear. Not to mention the fact that it would go on for another week, at least.

For two, he could blatantly tell the huntress he wanted to have her in every way a man could, and then face inevitable rejection. Not to mention the horror in her eyes at the very possibility, because women tended to run when grumpy ex-assassins admitted they wanted them.

Alaic sighed. Right.

Option one, then.

Damn it all.

* * *

H'aanit was cold.

Swinging that bucket of ice water at her opponent had not been her best idea. She shivered and scowled. Susanna had tisked very reprovingly at the sight of her stained and soaked clothes, and clucked her tongue once she heard the full tale. She had told her, she had said, that Alaic could handle it.

But H'aanit begged to differ. She had warned Susanna that Alaic was hurt, that his ribs were badly bruised, if not cracked. The old seer had shaken her head and muttered something about children that H'aanit pretended not to hear.

And then Alaic… Tall, broad, handsome Alaic walked in, tracking snow into the house. He bent over, removed his boots, only wincing a little. And Susanna accused him of overexerting himself to impress a pretty girl, an accusation he took with surprising calm.

In fact, H'aanit realized, he was… upsettingly calm. Completely unruffled. His expression, which had seemed so wild and dangerous only moments before, was back to its usual impassiveness. His gaze skipped over her as though she weren't there.

Which was how H'aanit concluded he truly was angry with her.

Was it her fault? She worried. Could he have truly handled six armed men alone? And if so, had her presence really been the distraction that had led to his injury?

Susanna had urged her to get a change of clothes and draw herself a bath while she saw to Alaic, but H'aanit hesitated. Her primary urge was to apologize, to have all the truths out immediately.

Except then Alaic removed his coat and his shirt in rough, jerking motions.

And H'aanit saw him and momentarily forgot what she wanted.

Gods above, he was perfect. All thick muscles, all taut skin and broad expanses. The kind of chest even Primrose would have sighed about, and Primrose was as blasé as could be where men were concerned.

If not for that bruise.

It was already ugly and purpling, the size of a hand, over the left side of his ribs. Draefendi, that must have hurt, H'aanit winced. If she had truly led to that injury by interfering, then she was perhaps in dire need of the scolding neither Susanna nor Alaic were giving her.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, hesitant, then relented. Ashamed, she turned on her heel and headed for the stairs.

Linde was dozing right there, her injured leg curled under her. She would need exercise to get back into running, after this, but every day she seemed to be fairing better and better. H'aanit stifled a new surge of guilt. She had relied on her hosts for help, and then possibly caused them more trouble.

She scratched Linde's head, then strode up the stairs, heart in turmoil.

Susanna was right, at least. She did need a warm bath and a change of clothes. Perhaps a good night's sleep would be useful ― in the morning she would make her formal apologies and declare she would remove to the inn, where she would no longer impede on their generosity and hospitality.

Downstairs, her two hosts were having an inaudible conversation, Susanna's tired voice clearly distinguishable from Alaic's deep tones. There was no way to explain the way his voice managed to make her insides squeeze, even when she couldn't hear his words. He softly rumbled into the timbers of the house as well as her bones.

She shook herself out of it. She would examine the thoughts later, once she was safely ensconced in bed.

Her cheeks flushed. Was that wise?

A fleeting image of Alaic ― broad, strong, barely controlled Alaic ― came into her mind, moving over her, and she felt her lungs expand inside her chest like she was drowning.

She knew the urge that struck her. She had a certain expertise in animal instincts, after all.

She took a deep breath. No. She was being ridiculous. Enough.

Bath. Bath. Bath. Not Alaic.

She collected her belongings, then headed into the bathroom, unsure. She had spent a week here without using the tub. She was accustomed to using washbasins and cloths, or heating her own buckets of water, or swimming in rivers. Big bathtubs, such as the one Susanna owned, with its own heater and pump, were designs her fellow travelers were most likely better able to handle.

And H'aanit still had not worked out the details of operating such contraptions. S'warkii didn't have them.

Leaving the door open, she placed her change of clothes in the corner, then paused, uncertainty making her waver. There were knobs and handles and levers, and a small gauge ― for temperature?

Not for the first time, she missed being able to rely on Cyrus' ingeniousness or Alfyn's resourcefulness. Not to mention Ophilia or Tressa no doubt used these bathing contraptions regularly.

Resolutely, H'aanit muttered to herself to get a grip. She was no dumber than them. It couldn't be that difficult. She'd seen it done once or twice, whenever they stopped at inns, and she was no idiot. She could figure it out.

Her hand went for the pump, and she hesitated.

"Need help?"

Alaic's deep voice nearly made her leap out of her skin.

Gods above― she hadn't heard him climb the stairs. How had he moved so quietly?

She turned and was dismayed to see he had not put his shirt back on. Instead, Susanna had apparently slathered a strange gelatinous substance on his bruise. Not that it diminished the splendour of the rest of him.

H'aanit realized she was looking at his chest again. Guiltily, her eyes lifted to Alaic's impassive expression, though his brow did twitch a little in question.

What had he asked?

Oh, right. Help. Help with the tub. Not help with her shallow breathing or that unbelievable ache inside of her. Help with the tub.

"I― yes, I…"

He pushed past her without another word, and H'aanit watched, trying to ignore how much smaller the bathroom felt when he was in it with her, how unbelievably daunting his presence was, and how suddenly weighty his silence could be.

The expanse of his back was, perhaps, more impressive than his chest. Damn him. Musculature rippled under his skin, dancing as he leaned towards the heater, the triceps in his arm sliding ever so slightly as he turned a pressure valve, then straightened.

"You need to open the water access, here," he said, motioning to the dented knob he had just turned a few times. "It's the main pipe from the boiler downstairs. The hot and cold water will mix once you press here." He motioned to a shutter valve, which clanked inside the wall when he pushed it slightly to the right. "Don't overdo it, or you'll boil. Afterwards, all you need to do is fill the bath." He gestured to the sturdy pump handle at the edge of the long bathtub.

H'aanit was still tongue-tied. He had turned towards her, and she was once again faced, up close, with an expanse of broad chest that would have put Sir Olberic's to shame. Probably. She certainly did not remember Sir Olberic making such an impression, at least.

"Thanke thee," she murmured, to the chest, wondering whether the hot water in the pipes would be enough to explain the heat under her skin.

Alaic was silent. H'aanit risked looking up at him, determined not to be nervous. He was peering down at her, impossibly close.

She inhaled. "I―"

"Alaic!"

Susanna. H'aanit immediately swallowed back whatever it was she had been about to say, wondering whether that was for the best or for the worst. The seer woman's voice carried through the house, shriller than her old lungs would otherwise suggest.

Alaic sighed out his nose. He pushed past H'aanit, leaning into the hallway. "Yes, mistress?" He called, without shouting, and once again H'aanit noted the way he rumbled into her very bones.

"I'm going to bed," Susanna called, from the end of the hallway. H'aanit wasn't sure whether she heard a note of amusement or deadpan annoyance in her voice. Either way, the implied warning was clear: don't bother me. "I've had two cups of softsleep and I'll be out like a log," she added, as H'aanit heard the floorboards cracking as she walked.

"Yes, mistress," Alaic replied.

"Tell H'aanit good night for me," the old woman added, and Alaic glanced back into the bathroom, brow raised, so that H'aanit's blood surged.

"Good night, Susanna," she replied, loudly, from within the bathroom, wondering why she felt so very flushed.

The old woman made a non-verbal sound of acknowledgement, and then her footsteps, over creaky floorboards, began to grow distant as she left the guest side of the house. She would sleep until at least the ninth hour tomorrow. Perhaps the tenth, if those two cups of softsleep tea had been consumed in truth.

Which left both Alaic and H'aanit alone.

Not that H'aanit cared.

He hadn't moved, so H'aanit did the only thing she could. She turned to the bath handle and prepared to pump. One pump, then two, and she began to hear the gurgling of water in the pipes, the pump pressure calling it forth from the cellar. The first gush of hot water splashed into the tub and H'aanit felt a strange twinge of triumph that it was working.

She was about to pump more when she felt him behind her.

His hand appeared over hers, dwarfing it. Firmly, he grabbed the handle and helped her along, so that the effort was divided.

She wanted to feel grateful. Instead, all she felt was everything else. The heat of his body, the smell of sweat and skin and unguent, the tantalizing brush of his bare chest against her shoulder, the calm exhalation of his breath against her ear―

The answering flood between her legs.

Oh, ye gods.

She was nearly paralyzed with the dawning realization that her body had a mind of its own, all movement now pure automation. She certainly did not mean to feel blood rushing through her veins, to have her heart pounding so hard against her ribcage, to feel any throbbing ache inside, or even to know her nipples were puckering inside her shirt. But they did, and she was suddenly awash with a rush of want so keen it took all her efforts to remain quiet, to see nothing except his hand over hers, pushing down, then releasing, then pushing down again.

The tub was soon full of steaming water, and H'aanit thought, perhaps, her torture was at an end.

Except then he released her hand, straightened… and didn't move away. She could still feel him, unbearably close, unmistakably there, not physically touching her anymore, but still so clearly present that there was no pretending otherwise. Her ears were pounding in time with her heart, she was so still. And she realized she was waiting. Afraid to move, afraid to scare him off.

Or was she the one who ought to be scared?

After what seemed like an eternity, he lifted her braid, gently. She felt the gentle tug against her scalp, and a spike of emptiness clenched inside of her. He untied the ribbon at its end, then began slowly working his way up the braid, untangling each strand slowly, and H'aanit let him― she let him, her breath shallow, because no man had ever taken the time to touch her hair so gently. Ophilia and Primrose had both enjoyed braiding her hair, but this… this was altogether different.

When his fingers reached the top, near her nape, they lingered, reaching in to rub at her scalp, lightly, gently, excruciatingly softly.

H'aanit had not been touched this gently in… oh. Years. Years? Yes, she mused, that had to be right. And it was _nice_. More than nice, because all she could think about was how warm he felt, how comforting he was, and how, perhaps, if he was undoing her braid so kindly, then maybe he wasn't angry with her at all, and maybe he would forgive her for interfering, and perhaps she would put this behind her. Go back to sparring and chores and silent evenings by the fireplace.

It would be nice.

She closed her eyes, sighing contentedly.

His fingers froze. Her eyes snapped open, and she realized he'd heard her, that she had lost that ever so tiny ounce of control― that he was about to retreat.

She didn't want him to go. She wanted him near. It was a petulant thought, one she might have expected from Tressa, perhaps. But there it was.

So, before he moved away, she did the only thing that she could. She leaned back against him completely, pressing against his chest.

Not unlike a cat in heat, she realized. But he irradiated so much heat too. He was so firm. And she was warm inside, and growing soft.

He wasn't growing soft, though. That was not a sword pommel pushing against her backside.

H'aanit was not as experienced as Primrose, fair. But she knew enough. And that firm bulge, at least, was gratifying.

Thank the gods of the wood. It was good to know she wasn't alone.

She made a tiny sound, halfway between a gasp and a sigh, and bucked against him, pushing, willing him to acknowledge, hoping he wouldn't deny the truth.

He did not disappoint.

With a stifled groan, his hands came around her waist, pulling her in more, and she felt his hard erection press against her arse insistently, pushing, as though he wanted to ignore their clothes.

And then he made another noise. A noise that had nothing to do with want.

Damn. His ribs.

Alaic froze with a grunt and released her.

When she turned, startled, he was silently cursing, his hand over his bruised ribs, where the unguent had rubbed off on H'aanit's clothes. It was an ugly and angry injury, and H'aanit once again felt a surge of guilt. She had forgotten, damn her, and now perhaps made things worse.

"Forgive me―"

Alaic raised his hand, silencing her. "No," he grumbled. "I'm sorry." He was looking at her, eyes dark, then looked away and said, "Serves me right, for rutting against a guest like some brute. I'll― I'll leave you alone. I'm sorry."

"Thou wilt do no such thing," H'aanit said, rushing to cut him off before he could exit the room. She shut the door behind her and pressed her back against it, as though to prevent him bodily from leaving. "Thou art injured. The bath should be thine."

He loomed over her, eyes dark, and when he studied her there was a violence in his gaze that ought to have alarmed her, but instead merely made her weak in the knees.

"Careful, huntress," he warned, almost growling. "You know what I am."

He meant assassin. H'aanit jutted her chin up at him in challenge. "Injured?"

"Dangerous," he corrected her. Now his eyes raked over her hungrily. "If you won't let me past you, I'll be crossing a different threshold."

A treacherous shiver ran down her spine. "Thou wouldst hurten me?" She asked. Skeptically. Hopefully.

"Depends on how good you are," Alaic whispered.

"We could sharen the bath," she whispered in return.

* * *

Much later, once they lay in bed, her hand lifted, brushed his hair. Her fingers were raking over his scalp in a distractingly appeasing way.

After a long moment, he heard her whisper, "I shall missen you."

Damn ― were they talking about separation already? "I'm not going anywhere just yet."

"I must go back to S'warkii eventually."

"Fine," he muttered, closing his eyes and nuzzling a warm, round breast.

She was silent for a long moment.

"I could returnen. Susanna would liken that."

Annoyed, he said, "Really? You had to bring her up while we're like this?"

She shot him a fiendish little smile, and Alaic felt his heart swell. Uncharacteristically.

And then the pain in his rib reminded him not to laugh.

* * *

"Did you sleep well?" Susanna asked, as she entered the kitchen, yawning.

It was ten in the morning. H'aanit looked up from the pastries she was preparing, hoping the flush on her cheeks didn't give her away. By the fireplace, Alaic was carving a little wooden statuette, looking for all the world as though he weren't equally guilty. He didn't even look up.

"I― yes," H'aanit replied, smiling at her host. "I did." Better than she had in years.

A purr sounded, and Susanna turned to Linde, who had limped over to her. "Oh, and look at you, darling Linde, it seems you're well on your way to recovery!"

Linde rubbed her big head against the old woman's leg, as cuddly as a kitten.

"She'll be fit as a fiddle by next month, and no mistake," Susanna determined, scratching the snow leopard behind the ears. "It's almost a shame― I liked having female company."

Alaic lifted his head to stare, and Susanna waved him off.

"Don't you mind my ramblings, Alaic dear. You're as talkative as a doorknob, but I wouldn't exchange you for the world."

H'aanit knew she was blushing now. "I could visit."

Susanna turned to her, blinking, and clasped her hands together. "Oh, my. That would make this old woman very happy." Her eyes were keen, and when she smiled there was an edge of knowing satisfaction in it. "But whatever convinced you?"

H'aanit hesitated. "Well― uh―"

"Never you mind," Susanna said, lifting a hand to stop her. "Pretend I never asked― at my age, I should know better than to interrogate gift horses." She clapped her hands together and looked down at H'aanit's work ― the pastry dough and the flour, and her hands kneading it. "You know what would make this delicacy even better? I have a jar of roseplum jam in my larder. Won't be a moment."

Susanna puttered away, and Linde curled up next to Alaic, by the hearth. But the bodyguard wasn't carving anymore. He was looking at H'aanit with a gaze that burned almost as much as the fire.

H'aanit flushed. "No need to looken at me thus," she muttered, turning back to her work.

"I disagree," Alaic said. She heard a smile in his voice. "If you come back often enough, maybe I'll court you."

H'aanit's chest squeezed with happiness. "Only if thou wishest."

"Oh," Alaic said, as Susanna's steps were heard returning from the larder, "I promise you, huntress. You can't make me do something I don't want to do."

H'aanit shot him a glare, but he schooled the smile off his face by the time Susanna was back, and H'aanit was forced to contend with the way her insides flopped over all on her own.

"I could make more," Susanna said, placing the jar on the table. "If you'd like to bring some for your friends when you visit Bolderfall."

It was a sweet intention. H'aanit smiled. "Only if it isn't too much of a burden."

"Nonsense," Susanna said. "I have nothing better to do with my time, do I? At least until one or both of you decide to give me great-grandchildren." She shot Alaic a small glare, which the bodyguard ignored with supreme indifference.

H'aanit, though, found herself tongue-tied.

A situation Susanna did not alleviate when she turned… and winked.

"Susanna―"

"Don't," Alaic said, without turning around. He was meticulously carving whiskers into his wooden figurine. It looked a lot like a leopard. "Don't give her ammunition. You can leave but I can't."

"Please," Susanna scoffed, heading for her large armchair. "They don't call me the Seer for my rheumy peepers." She sighed and reached down to pet Linde, who began to purr. "Alas, Linde, I am outnumbered. You must be my ally now."

H'aanit saw the confusion on Linde's face, and couldn't hold in a laugh. Susanna chuckled too.

There was a gentle look in Alaic's eyes ― not quite a smile, but close enough. He cast it her way for the briefest instant.

And in that moment, H'aanit knew everything would be alright.


	2. Favourable

**Yes, this is Tressa and Ali! FEAR MY SHIP.**

 **Once again, the uncensored version of this is on AO3, in case you're feeling up for some lewdness.**

 **Love,**  
 **CM**

* * *

 **A Fitting Finale**

 **Part 2: Favourable**

* * *

Tressa put the box down and stood, looking around.

The warehouse was empty, but Tressa didn't see the emptiness. Under the beams and between the sturdy stone and plaster walls, Tressa saw... She inhaled― _potential_.

Propping her hands on her hips, she took another breath, exhaled.

Yes. She nodded to herself. Opportunity!

"So…" The port authority representative said, interrupting her moment of appreciation, "Is everything to your... satisfaction?"

Tressa turned to him. He was short and squat and clearly more suited for scriptorium duty than showing young merchants around to new warehouse allotments. And he looked a little smarmy. But she shot him her most brilliant smile. "Yessiree."

The man nodded, a small edge of annoyance to the tilt of his head. "Very good, miss, but I need your signature if we're all fine and dandy."

"Right!" She hopped over to him, picking up his quill. The line was marked with a helpful X in red ink, so she laid out her full name in her most flowing letters. Tressa Colzione, registered Grandport merchant, signing for the Colzione Concern. Her parents would be proud.

The man studied her signature with a thoughtful pout. Maybe he was surprised she knew how to sign her name. Maybe he himself couldn't read. Maybe he took offence at the flourish under her flowing 'z'. Maybe, like all the others, he believed she was too young to do this. But he eventually shrugged. His duty discharged, he tilted his hat at her and strode out the door. Mikk and Makk stepped aside, watching him go. Then, Mikk turned back to Tressa and frowned.

"So, ye want me to fetch the Cap'n, miss?"

"Whenever he has a moment," Tressa said. She turned back to her warehouse. _Her_ warehouse. "If he's busy with the dockmaster and porters, I can wait."

Mikk and Makk left with a shrug. For the first time since entering the warehouse, Tressa was well and truly alone.

She looked at the great expanse before her, and smiled. Not for the first time since the near-end of the world, she found herself filled with the clear sensation that she was on the right path, and her heart swelled with pride. Even her parents hadn't reached the point of being _Grandport_ merchants. They were content with their lovely Rippletide, and Tressa didn't blame them, but she had always longed for _more_.

And here she was, years after setting out on that eager journey, not much older, but so much wiser.

More or less.

She was still, Primrose liked to remind her, the baby of the bunch. The dancer always said it fondly, though, with a dimpled smile and a nose-tweak, but Tressa was hard-pressed not to scowl.

She was competent― none of them would deny it. She had kept them all well and comfortably fed, lodged and equipped during those months on the road, all out of her own pocket and canny money-making skills. She wasn't the best cook ― H'aanit had that honour ― and she wasn't exactly the best at collecting information or rallying the masses or defending them all, but she had her uses, and she knew how to play to them expertly.

So it was fine if they liked to baby her a little. She knew what she was worth.

She was dusting the vast expanse with a wide broom when the sound of footsteps echoed once again in the warehouse.

"Well, well," a familiar voice said, behind her. "How far the lady has come."

She turned, smiling. "Captain Leon," she acknowledged, cheerfully. "You got here faster than I thought."

"I couldn't wait to see it," he said, warmly. He was, as always, impeccably but soberly dressed, the blue of his captain's coat made of thick but warm wool. He owned other clothes, more elegant ones, but she knew he dressed this way when he was in Grandport, if only to convince would-be preceptors of his lack of funds.

Leon Bastralle stepped into the vast warehouse and studied it. "Well, I'll be. They said you found a prime location, but I couldn't credit that you'd actually snatch up a place on the Grand Quay."

"I'll be the first to see incoming wares this way," Tressa said, though she knew it was unnecessary to explain that to an experienced merchant captain like him. She liked to say the obvious. She did that a lot. "No one gets by the Colzione Concern without letting me have a sift."

"A clever move," Captain Leon agreed. "But I thought the leases on these warehouses were the most expensive in all of Orsterra."

"They would be," Tressa snorted. "The ships that moor on the Grand Quay cross the Middlesea and the Opencean ― they're not just any ships."

Leon smiled at her gently. "Precisely, Tressa. How in the world did you come by the necessary sums?"

Oh. She let out a nervous laugh. "Well, I had to put up a third of my personal funds up for the first month." At his look of growing concern, she shot him her brightest, most convincing smile. "But I'll be making it all back in no time." Especially if she nursed her resources closely. If all went well, she wouldn't have to spend a single leaf of the Wyndham prize money. That, she kept for a truly rainy day.

"Perhaps." Captain Leon's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "Was that wise?"

Tressa couldn't hold in another nervous chuckle. "Maybe not. But I had to try."

Captain Leon had a look on his face that spoke of his age, and his diminishing willingness to test his own mettle against the market. "Well," he said, at last, "I think it only fitting that I be the first captain to offer you a look through my wares." He narrowed his eyes. "Not for free, this time, though. I do have crew to pay."

Tressa nearly skipped with excitement and set the broom aside. "Oh, yes, let's."

The day was bright and sunny outside ― the world smelled of opportunity. As she passed by Captain Leon on the way out the door, he stopped her with a gentle hand to her arm. His eyes were on her neck, and he was frowning with curiosity.

"What is that―?" He gently nudged her dress collar aside, revealing the pendant, glinting in the sudden sunlight.

Tressa's hand automatically went to the stone, but Captain Leon had already recognized it. The Eldrite. A rare stone, of immeasurable value. One she had never sold, after all. A stone that rightly belonged to him.

But Captain Leon's gaze was gentle, and he smiled. "You've had it cut and set."

Tressa's hand closed around the pendant's familiar shape. The stone was warm from being against her skin day in and day out. "It's a reminder," she said. And, as always when her hand was on the stone, thoughts and memories flooded her.

The flipping of pages, the whisper of silk, the tinkling of phials, the sound of a muffled footstep, the whispering of prayers, the grinding of a whetstone, the purring of a leopard. When she touched the Eldrite, the sounds and images came back as clearly and comfortingly as the initial memories had been in truth. If she closed her eyes, she could see Ophilia's inviting smile, Cyrus' furrow of reflection, Alfyn's tongue sticking out in concentration, Olberic's set jaw, H'aanit's relaxed focus, Therion's annoyed scowl, Primrose's teasing grin.

The Eldrite was a comfort when Tressa worried about what to do. It gave her strength, as though they were here again, with her.

But Captain Leon did not ask what reminder she meant. In a way, Tressa would not have been shy to explain. And yet the admission felt personal.

"Come, then," he said instead, motioning into the bustle of the market and docks. "I believe you wished to browse."

And, pleased to continue down her path, Tressa stepped forth into the sunlight.

* * *

Ali bin Maruf followed the directions he was given, but did not believe he was in the right place.

He couldn't be.

The address he had in his hand was right ― warehouse number two, by the Grand Quay. It was, like all the other portside warehouses, a veritable hive of activity. Over the cries of seagulls and the everyday bustle of the Grandport market, only two blocks away, Ali heard the telltale sound of business: men hammering crates shut, the creaking of ropes under burden, the footsteps of workmen and workhorses alike, and the general hubbub of trade. Deckhands and porters moved through the streets with wares and boxes and sacks, while harried-looking wholesalers ran from one appointment to the next, determined to get the best prices before the day began to wind down.

The warehouse's large doors were open wide, the better to allow carts and wagons in for loading and unloading. The barrels and crates Ali could see all bore legitimate stamps and the insignias of distant lands. He ached to know what they contained.

But he didn't go through the warehouse doors. Instead, he continued along to the warehouse's frontage, which was on the cross-street, and looked in through the freshly cleaned shop windows. The inside of the concern was neat, a long polished counter dividing the front from the back, and new drapes had been hung. Familiar, bright canary yellow. They lended the shop an air of cheer in an otherwise dusty and grimy quarter of Grandport.

Above the door, the words Colzione Concern confirmed he was in the right place, though he could hardly believe it.

He pushed the door open, triggering the bell. The place was deserted, so he tucked his directions into his pocket and straightened his vest.

There was a decided air of bustling disorganization about the room, like things moved too quickly for even the most enterprising maid to make any headway in cleaning. Still, some token objects had been put up on display, and Ali browsed through the low shelves with only passing interest ― here, a set of fine Sebbai crockery, there, an elaborate Isaran mantle clock. Further down, there were more mundane objects ― sample bags of grain and seeds, dried herbs and roots. Neat little rows of well-identified bottles of exotic and ordinary oils. Examples of flatware and various bits and bobs in different alloys and designs. Buttons. Buckles. A few rolls of silks and cottons with unusual colours.

The counter had a full catalogue of machinery pieces for order, from pulleys to cranks and levers, bolts and screws and ratchet clamps, nails and hammers, gears and flywheels, skids and straps.

Behind the counter, a full wall of jewels and jewellery.

Ali turned to study the emporium. By Bifelgan, it had everything.

Everything except the person he was looking for.

The double saloon doors that led out back flapped open with an oiled creak, and Ali turned.

"Sorry for the wait―" the diminutive merchant said, her face hidden behind a stack of books.

The pile looked precarious in her hands, so Ali leaned over the counter and lifted half of the pile off, pushing wares aside on the counter to make room.

"Thank you," the girl exhaled, and Ali found himself once again face to face with Tressa Colzione.

Only she wasn't a girl anymore. Not really. Her face had not changed much, except it had ― her features were less rounded, her eyes more experienced. She had grown a short braid instead of her messy bob from three ―no, nearly four years ago.

She recognized him with a start. "Ali!"

And something wondrous happened then: her expression shifted from harried cheer to a look of genuine joy, with a smile that reached all the way up to her eyes. Before he could say anything, she lifted the counter's flap and reached for him. Her arms closed around his shoulders in a sincere hug, and Ali felt his entire rib cage fill to bursting.

"Hi, Green Pea," he said. "Been a while, huh?"

She pulled away, her smile as broad as before. "Yeah! I was sure you'd forgotten all about me!"

Ali managed a weak smile. Where to begin telling her how wrong she was?

"Come and see!" She said instead, grabbing his hand. She had dusty calluses, no doubt from working long hours in the warehouse, but Ali was happy to have her narrow fingers entwined with his anyway.

She led him to the back, past an office and a staircase ― most likely leading up to her quarters, on the second floor ― and into the vast expanse of her domain.

"I moved in two months ago," she said, excitedly. "But I think I might begin to make a profit soon. I'm only barely covering the operational costs right now," she added, embarrassed, with a glance his way. "Grandport licenses aren't cheap."

Ali knew that only too well. Grandport expenses were legendary in Orsterra. "Do you have the funds to last until then?" He asked, his own merchant's mind taking over before he could stop himself.

She let out a wavering laugh, and didn't reply. Ali nearly rolled his eyes. _I guess not_. Always flying by the seat of her pants, this one.

"Careful with your funds, Tress," he said, hoping she didn't hear the note of fondness that wanted to sound in his voice. "Many an experienced merchant has been spat out of Grandport for skipping the fees."

"I know," Tressa said, exasperated. "Captain Leon keeps warning me of the same. You're all just a bunch of old finger-waving codgers, is what you are."

Old codgers? Ali tried not to laugh. He was barely two years her senior. And handsome Leon Bastralle was not yet forty. He was in the prime of his life. "I'm just trying to help."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Yeah, why are you here, anyway?" She brightened. "Not that I'm unhappy to see you."

Aside from the obvious. Ali shifted his weight. "Well, you know my father and I have a shop together."

She nodded. "Uh-huh―" Her eyes darted to the side and she frowned. "One second. _Jasper_!" She cried out, surprisingly powerfully, her bellow startling a team of workmen a few yards away. "Don't put your fingers under the skids, you'll lose them!"

The young workman seemed embarrassed, and the other men of his team grumbled agreement, nudging him good-humoredly.

"Sorry about that," Tressa said, turning back to him with a scowl. "I keep telling them to be safe, but they're reckless."

"How many employees do you have?" Ali asked, his admiration unabated.

"Five," she said. "Or rather, five full-time employees, which includes one warehouse superintendent and two shiftmates. The rest are dayworkers I hire whenever a ship drops anchor."

It was impressive. Far more impressive than Ali would have liked. He had come prepared for something altogether different, more manageable. Something that didn't dwarf his business proposal into insignificance.

"That's… I'm…" He decided for honesty and shot her a genuine smile. "You never cease to amaze me, Tressa."

"Don't be ridiculous," Tressa said, her cheeks flushing prettily. "I remember you could sell wood to a tree. None of this is worth a single leaf if I can't move it out."

Ali felt hope rekindled inside of him. "Well, then, maybe I can be of service after all. I came to offer what could be a mutually beneficial agreement."

It was gratifying to see the interest sparked in her eyes.

* * *

Ali was different, Tressa decided. He was more reserved than he had been. And the gangly limbs he'd sported years ago had filled out, so that he now looked like a man rather than a boy. Or he would, if he'd ever bothered to cut his hair. He'd tried to tie it back with a red ribbon, but it was to little avail. She'd only known one other man with such messy hair, and it had been Alfyn, and she'd long given up on taming that particular mess.

Still, when she handed him a cup of tea across the table in her humble lodgings over the shop and he looked up at her with those green eyes of his, she decided he was no less handsome than he'd ever been.

A shame he'd decided to cover up his chest, though. That Marsalim fashion, with its open linen shirts, had been a boon on the eyes.

"My father and I have a shop back home," he said, as she sat back down. "As you know." She nodded. "And he's… a talented merchant. Dedicated, hard-working, very persistent. But his ideas are a little old-fashioned."

"Old-fashioned how?" Tressa asked. Outside, the whistle blew to mark the mid-afternoon break, but she didn't budge. The workmen would take care of themselves.

"He's content with keeping things as they always have been," Ali said. He hadn't touched his tea. "It would be fine, except I have ideas for expansion that he won't consider."

"Such as?"

Ali motioned around them vaguely, smiling. "Opening branches across the world, for one." He raised a hand, but Tressa wasn't about to interrupt. "I know, it's expensive. It's not something you can begin without capital."

She knew it well. Her books testified to the immense financial stress this single entreprise had put on her accounts. "Saving up was pretty difficult," she agreed.

"The thing is," Ali said, "my father's obstinate refusal has nothing to do with money. I told him I'd take care of the venture myself, and front my own funds. He just doesn't want to try."

"Why not?" Tressa asked, frowning.

"Because he thinks I can't," Ali said. There was a note of bitterness in his voice. "He's used to doing things his way, and can't imagine that I could be more than a shop boy to him. So letting me become a genuine partner― he can't fathom it. I'll always be a child to him."

He wasn't a child, though. He hadn't been when they'd met, and he certainly wasn't one now. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said, saddened for him. "Is that why you left Marsalim?"

Ali's head tilted side to side slowly, a universal sign. "More or less," he said. "I intended to find you and suggest we pool our resources and acquire a Grandport license." He laughed earnestly, revealing a row of straight white teeth. His eyes crinkled at the corners endearingly. "I realize I have arrived a little late to offer my help."

"I'm not above needing help," Tressa said, slowly, mesmerized by the sight of that grin. "But how would that fix the situation with your father?"

Ali leaned back. "If I could show him a functioning concern of my own, he'd be hard-pressed to refuse a partnership. I'm his son."

"But…?"

Ali's smile softened. He had long lashes. Not that she was looking at them. "But you've beat me to it. Clearly I underestimated both your speed and your means. Now I come to you with pitiful funds and no leverage to become your partner in trade."

Tressa's heart felt… hot inside her chest. The blood pumping through it suffused her chest, her neck, her cheeks. "Oh." She looked at the flakes of tea leaves at the bottom of her cup of tea. "Well, maybe all is not lost for you."

Ali's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

It was a good plan. Tressa knew good plans the same way she could sniff out a deal. Like many good plans, it had mostly nothing but upsides, and downsides she could manage without trouble. "I could use your help."

The way his expression brightened with barely repressed hope was one of the downsides. She had never been very good at dealing with whatever suffused her when he looked like that. "I'm listening."

"I need someone who can sell," she said, bluntly. It was an embarrassing thing to admit, but she hoped he wouldn't tease her too much. "The truth is that I am driving myself ragged trying to keep the Concern afloat. I need to handle incoming shipments and outgoing caravans, I need to handle the shiftworkers and the dockmasters, I need to manage the funds and the cargo and the inventory, and when all is said and done, I have practically no time left to sell. I was going to put out an ad―"

"You won't," Ali said. He had leaned in. "I'm the best merchant around the Middlesea and you know it."

She felt a tiny spark of irritation. "Now wait just a minute―"

"Tressa Colzione," Ali bin Maruf said, with a fire of determination she hadn't realized she missed, "Give me one day. One day in your shop. That is all I ask."

"You don't even know the inventory―"

"I saw your inventory," he said, dismissively. "I can handle it."

She wanted to protest. "We're seeing low traffic as it is―"

"One day."

"I can't pay you right now―"

"I'll do it for my meals. Just in the beginning," he added, when he saw she was about to say something. "Look," he continued, "it's like you said. You need to move your merchandise. And I need a place where I can work on deals for my father _without_ being in the same city as my father."

She _did_ have wares that would fetch higher prices in the Sunlands… "I guess I wouldn't mind if you used a corner of the warehouse for your own deals," she said, slowly, "but Colzione would have to come first."

"It will," Ali said, his expression honest, direct. Trustworthy.

Well, trust had never been an issue between them. Ali was as forthright as they came. Sneaky, sure, sometimes. And proud and competitive. And sometimes he called her Green Pea. But Tressa had many of the same vices, with a temper to match.

"One day," she finally conceded, and Ali's whole face changed to one of joy.

"You won't regret it," he swore.

* * *

Ali spent his single day with a fire in his gut.

From the moment the first customer entered through the door, he was alight with a single purpose: sell everything.

In fairness, he had cheated a little. Before the morning had even started, he'd sent runners out, using what small funds he'd brought with him, to spread the word about Colzione. Into every corner of Grandport they had run, to grocers and carriers and apothecaries and smiths, to tinkerers and other merchant concerns, to bookbinders and jewellers ― to every store owner that ever had exchanged a good for a leaf, Ali's runners carried the word of a new concern, a new opportunity.

It had taken every last penny Ali had. It was a reckless move, a potentially fruitless one. But he had banked all his hopes on Tressa giving him a chance, and there would be no other opportunity.

And, he was pleased to note, his strategy paid off. One by one they came, trickling into the shop front, looking for the wonders Ali had sown word about. Tressa's eye for quality merchandise was the selling point ― she had incredible wares. They sold themselves, really, if Ali were to be honest. But she didn't need to know that.

At noon, when she came downstairs to see how he was doing, she didn't interrupt. Ali was deep in negotiation with a chaplain to furnish an orphanage with proper pewter dishware, and he managed to find the perfect middle point between his profit and the chaplain's humble funds.

He sold mercer's items until his fingers were completely desensitized to needle pricks and his eyes saw four button-holes on every object he held.

In the afternoon, he sold a hundred woodworking toolsets to the Orsterran guild of carpenters, and twelve months' worth of ingredients to the biggest apothecary in town. He registered the sale of eighty bolts of cloth, sixty-two boxes of blank illumination-quality books, twenty-seven crates of grain, nine coffee presses, and seventy-three casks of first-quality Grennan and Firehaly wines.

By closing time, he was still taking notes for backorders from five different wholesalers, while the porters at the back waited around, twiddling their thumbs.

When at last he shut the shop door and locked it, turning the sign to display that they were closed, Ali had sold merchandises totalling some ninety thousand leaves, with another fifty-five to receive when ordered goods came in.

It was the best day he'd ever achieved. It was possibly the best day of sales anyone had ever known, _ever_. It sure felt that way, especially with the clapping that suddenly sounded from the back.

One of the warehouse shiftworkers whistled in celebration, and as the warehouse workers huddled in, he received another round of amused applause.

"That was the most amazing thing I ever saw," young Jasper said.

"It was," one of the superintendents agreed. "But now we'll need wares to trade tomorrow."

Tomorrow was not in his purview, technically, but Ali leaned against the counter, exhausted. "Tomorrow we'll keep the warehouse doors shut, and operate on backorder. No one needs to know that we're out of goods."

"We have that shipment coming in from Azurra," the warehouse team lead said. "And a few smaller skids of preserved vegetables and salted jerkies."

"I heard the boxes of hoopskirt and corset bones were going to be early," another said.

Hoopskirt and corset boning. Ali wanted to let out an exhausting laugh. That would be fun for a man to sell. Maybe he could invent himself a sister… But then, that would be a lie, and he did have principles.

Tressa appeared among the warehouse workers, her expression jovial. "Alright, everyone, your shift has been over for an hour. Don't you have families who worry about you?"

"We had to see the end of it," Jasper said, nodding to Ali, who was trying very hard not to look at the way Tressa's dress moved around her legs.

Tressa's eyes were on him. Ali peeled his gaze away from her boots. "I have to admit," she said, "I knew you'd do a good job. I didn't realize you'd do this good of a job."

It was a glowing assessment. It took everything for Ali to merely shrug, as though the effort hadn't drained him of every last coin and figment of energy. "I keep my promises."

"As do I," she said, smiling. "You, sir, are _hired_."

"Wait," Jasper hissed to his supervisor as he was milling out with the others, "that was his _interview_?"

Ali didn't hear the supervisor's response, because Tressa had joined his side, leaning against the counter. Before them, the shop and its shelves were woefully, bizarrely empty of most goods.

"You sold me out," Tressa said, as though she could scarcely believe it. "I thought I had enough wares to last me until next fall."

"You don't mind, right?" Ali asked. Sometimes not having enough products to sell was as bad as holding on to too many.

She shook her head. "I'll just have to increase inventory. Although…" She glanced at him sideways, pursing her lips, "I would appreciate a heads-up next time you decide to send runners out."

So she had heard about that. Ali buried his head in his arms. "Even the best merchant is useless without the ears of the masses, you know," he muttered to the counter surface.

She startled him by running a hand over his back, patting him through his shirt as comfortingly as she could. "It's alright, I'm only teasing you. You really outdid yourself."

He peered up from the cradle of his arms. "Thanks. But it would have been much more difficult if you'd selected poor quality items. As it was, I didn't have to extol on their virtues; they were obvious."

She smiled with pleasure; she had dimples when she smiled. "It sounds like we make a pretty good team."

Ali liked the way she said that. A team. It was exactly what he had hoped to become, with her. When he'd sent her off all those years ago, with that suggestion she grow more refined, it had only been to mask… what was it? Longing? Fear of leaving?

"Well," Tressa said, suddenly aware they'd been staring at one another a breath too long in silence, "um. Be honest now, do you have a place to sleep tonight?"

He didn't. His pockets contained enough to buy a few meals, but not enough for an inn room that guaranteed he'd wake up in the morning with all his organs. He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again...

Tressa sighed, but there was a hint of fondness in her expression that comforted him. "I didn't think so," she said. "Come on, then. I have a spare bedroll."

Ali followed her up the stairs, into that familiar cozy living room, with its yellow curtains and its small dining table. She had arranged a bedroll by the fireplace, and Ali shot her a curious look.

She shrugged, rolling her eyes with embarrassment. "When I realized you'd hired runners― I figured you'd have nothing left."

"But you didn't know I would succeed," Ali said, tentatively.

Tressa eyed him with a look he struggled to decipher. Then she snorted, utterly unladylike, and muttered something that might have been 'idiot'.

He didn't get to ask, though, because she added, "Have you eaten? I have some passable stew, or some grilled fish."

"Either," he said, his mouth going dry.

She nodded, and chose the fish, which she plated along with a selection of fresh Grandport vegetables. It was simple fare, the likes that didn't betray her actual wealth. She set the plate in front of him as he took a seat at her table, and went back into her tiny kitchen, puttering about for fresh water.

"I wanted your opinion," she said, from within one of her cabinets, so that her voice was slightly muffled.

"About what?" He asked, the fork halfway to his mouth.

She re-emerged from the cabinet with an elegant glass ― Phenitian glass, by the looks of it ― and filled it at the pump, strands of hair now loose from her short braid. When she placed the glass in front of him, she straightened and put a hand to her waist. "Do I look like a guppy?"

Ali chewed. "A guppy?" He echoed, mouth full.

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "A guppy. Someone with no experience."

It was Ali's turn to snort. "Well, I know that you're not. No one wins the Grandport fair without some measure of mercantile skill."

She smiled ruefully, but Ali could tell she was still dissatisfied.

"Who called you a guppy?" He asked, frowning.

She pulled out the chair across from him. He motioned to his food with his fork, but she waved him off, with a mention that she had eaten already.

"It's just," she said, "When the port authority wardens heard I was twenty-one―"

"Nearly twenty-two," Ali corrected her, cutting off another morsel of fish.

"Right, but twenty-one all the same," she said, annoyed at his interruption, which made him smile, "they started calling me a guppy. They said I'd be out of here in no time. That I bit off more that I can chew."

Ali paused, frowned. "Well, they're wrong." Especially after today. "Clearly."

Tressa sighed, placed her cheek in her hand with frustration. "They said the previous renter of the warehouse would return with funds. They suggested I employ a money-lender, that I'd get some good advances―"

"Against what rates?" Ali asked, and she gestured emphatically. He snorted. "That's advice they give to every merchant. They probably thought you were too young to know any better."

"I know," she said, mournfully. "But it got me thinking. Maybe I do look… young. Too young. Not serious enough."

Ali's gaze lifted, went to her face.

Tressa Colzione did look young. She always had. With that sweet oval face, her short brown hair, her bright eyes, her pink lips, and that tendency she had to favour sunny colours, she had always looked several years younger than her age. Especially when she had been surrounded by her older friends, those seven travelers.

But the shapes that lurked under her dress, all feminine, had not a trace of childishness to them.

He looked away, but his throat felt tight. "I know plenty of women who'd kill to look as―" Lovely, pretty, sweet... "... young as you do."

She made a sound in her throat that was pure annoyance. "That's beside the point," she groaned. "Maybe wholesalers won't want to deal with me if they think I look like some inexperienced beginner."

"They won't have a choice," Ali said, grinning. "If you continue on this road, you'll be an inevitable staple of Grandport."

"With your help," she said, softly.

"If you'll have me until then," Ali said.

She was silent, but something of her spark was returning to her eyes, and at last she said, "Well, sure. I did hire you, didn't I?" She leaned forward on the table, both elbows propped on her yellow tablecloth. "So, enough business talk. How have you _been_?"

* * *

The days that followed were a blur. Mostly because Tressa was busy from dawn to dusk. After Ali's stunt, they had been up to their eyeballs in order requests, which had only just begun to trickle off when Captain Leon returned with another shipment, Bifelgan bless him.

Her days, busy though they were, began to follow a predictable, pleasant pattern. She'd rise to find Ali usually preparing breakfast, his eyes almost as bleary as her own, which was a great opportunity to admire the bare expanse of his back. Ali, she had discovered, liked to sleep without a shirt, a habit that most Sunlanders kept. Or so he said. She had never asked Primrose about it, and anyway the dancer was too far away to interrogate.

Once they both inhaled their breakfast, Ali dressed and went down to the shop, where he usually kept busy until lunch, while Tressa was off to the warehouse to go about her daily business ― management. At lunch, she'd return to prepare small sandwiches to share with Ali and whichever team lead was on duty that day. They'd discuss the accounts, the shipments, and Ali would ask for her input on his sales pitches, a kind intention that they both knew was just him being polite. He never needed her assistance, which was just as well, since her afternoons were usually spent out of the warehouse, scouring the docks, quays and markets for interesting goods or, better yet, interesting business opportunities.

By the time she returned, at dinner, Ali was done closing up the shop and had begun cooking a light meal, which allowed her to go over the books.

It was a little scary, really, how easily they'd fallen into their pattern. They would eat together, rarely in silence, chatting about their day, their ideas for the future of the Concern, or, more often, they'd tell the stories of their journeys. She'd tell him about the day Alfyn had offered to teach Ophilia how to fish, and the great splashes that had completely muddied the cleric's robes. Ali would describe in great detail the way a thunderstorm had once left a vast expanse of sand marred with little burned craters where desert glass could be found.

She told him about Therion and his terrible habit of filching goods out of people's pockets, and the way Olberic liked to glower at him for it.

"Sir Olberic is like a big brother," she had said. "Although I guess he could technically be old enough to be my father."

Ali had snorted, and traded his own story about the day his father had managed to buy an entire crate of unmarked bottles of plum wine, which made them almost worthless, and how a restaurant had taken them anyway for a ridiculous price because the owner had noted Maruf's reluctance to discuss them in his shop, and falsely assumed they were worth ten times their value.

That evening, Tressa had just finished telling him about the time Cyrus had spent a full day following H'aanit around, prodding her about her pet leopard, to the huntress' great annoyance, when Ali handed her a glass of pear juice and joined her in the other armchair, in front of the fireplace. His bedroll had been tucked out of the way, as it always was in the evenings.

"It sounds like you really had a good time with them," Ali said, smiling over the rim of his own glass. In the firelight, his skin looked even more tan, and his green eyes were bright with amusement.

"I did," Tressa said, fondly. Her memories were among the most precious thing she held. Absently, her fingers found the Eldrite, and she was awash with the recollection of Primrose laughing at something Alfyn had said, of the sight of H'aanit trying to dance, of Cyrus cursing as he tried to learn a new spell and instead ignited the corner of his robes. "Sometimes I miss them, but it helps to know we'll see each other soon."

Ali took a sip. "Is that so?"

She sank further into her armchair, content to put her feet up towards the fire. "I'll be heading out to Bolderfall in ten weeks." Two months and a half. A delicate time to step away from the Concern, but not negotiable. "We have an annual meeting coming up." There was no way she'd miss it.

Ali looked surprised. "Really? I didn't know."

Tressa nodded, pleased. "I'll probably take the opportunity to arrange for the transport of goods while I'm there." She glanced at him. "Hey, partner, you won't mind being in charge while I'm away, right?"

He snorted. "No, of course not. I'll take any chance to prove myself." His expression shifted. "Will you be gone… a long time?"

She laughed. "Don't you worry, I'll be back before you can get too comfortable."

But then her eyes went around the small apartment she kept, and her cheeks began to feel warm. She averted her gaze.

"Is something the matter?"

There was, of course, and like so many other matters Tressa felt woefully inadequate to discuss it. She didn't have H'aanit's poise or Primrose's easy conversation. And even Ophilia, who could be easily embarrassed, at least had some sort of graceful and gentle approach to delicate subjects. But as it was, Tressa's only skill was to blurt things out. "So, uh, listen, if you want to invite company over―"

"Company?" Ali echoed, lowering his glass.

She could feel her cheeks flush in the firelight, and couldn't meet his gaze. "You know, _female_ company. Just, uh, if you could change out my sheets―"

"Whoa―" Ali said, suddenly straightening. He was visibly alarmed, and when he spoke he stammered, "Whoa, there, I'm not― I mean, I don't think that's―"

"It's completely natural," she said, barreling on, interrupting him, "I know men have needs. I may not be experienced, but I can― I wouldn't blame you if you took the opportunity of my absence to, uh… To find someone―"

" _Tress_ ," Ali said, and Tressa realized she had thoroughly embarrassed him. Well, at least that made two of them.

"Look, I know," she said, "it's a conversation that we're better off having right now, especially if we're going to be roommates for a while."

"I appreciate your concern," Ali said, flatly, "but I think I'd rather not."

"You can totally use my bed," she said, thinking she was more than generous, "really."

He muttered something she couldn't make out, and took another sip of pear juice.

Tressa knew she had a tendency to soar far beyond people's comfort zones. But like so many of her personal flaws, she couldn't stop herself. "It would just make sense," she said, hating her unstoppable babble mouth, "for an attractive guy like yourself― I mean, since you can't while I'm here."

Now he did look at her, and one of his dark eyebrows quirked. "Attractive?"

Gods. She probably looked like a pomegranate. "I mean―"

"No," Ali said, and now she saw a corner of his lips had quirked up. "Please, go on, Miss Colzione. You said I was attractive. Don't deny it."

She wasn't going to deny it. She couldn't. Not when he looked at her like that, like a cait in cream. Instead, she exhaled shakily and managed an uncertain smile. "I just meant that if, uh, some other girl, _not_ me, some _other_ girl, happened to notice― and if, uh, you liked her too, I guess ― then I suppose it's fine if you don't bring her home to a shoddy bedroll, is all."

"How generous," Ali said, but he was still grinning like a fool, his gaze dark and amused.

"I thought so," Tressa muttered, forcing herself to drink more pear juice. She wanted to sink into the armchair and disappear.

"Well," Ali said, at length, "I guess it's my turn to say that if you need me to make myself scarce, you just need to say so, and I'll find some other place to sleep for a night or two."

Oh, Bifelgan help her. That would be the absolute most embarrassing thing. She felt a rush of heat flush all over her. "That won't be―"

"I mean, I guess I can't blame you," Ali continued, talking to his glass, lightly. "That Captain Bastralle really cuts a dashing figure."

Captain… Bastralle? For a moment, she forgot her embarrassment, and merely eyed him with confused dismay. "Mister _Leon_?"

Ali wasn't looking at her. His eyes were on the fire. "Sure. Why not? He's handsome enough, right? I know he admires you."

For her business acumen, sure. Tressa wanted to shake Ali, protest with gagging sounds. Instead, she fetched a cushion out from behind her and threw it at him, missing by a mile. "Mister Leon is almost as old as Sir Olberic!"

Ali seemed surprised by her outburst, glancing at the cushion where it had come to rest on the floor, behind his chair, but barely moved. His gaze on her was scrutinizing. "It's been done before," he said, slowly.

Maybe by other people. Tressa wanted to dust the very accusations off herself, physically. "We're not like that," she protested. "He's not― he's not my type."

"Your type?" Ali echoed. Now a small smile pulled at his lips again. "I was unaware you _had_ a type."

So had she, until she'd seen the way the firelight looked on Ali.

* * *

A type, then. Ali was trying very hard not to look interested. She was clearly flustered, which made it infinitely more difficult. When Tressa Colzione was flustered, she looked completely charming, all pink cheeks and bright eyes.

She rose from her chair before he could pry further, and mumbled something about going to bed, and Ali knew she'd taken as much teasing as she could for one evening. With a muttered good night, she wandered to the back of her apartment, to that place he would never dare enter without her permission, especially with a female guest. A moment later, her door closed, and he was left in front of the fireplace, wondering how in the world he'd just finished a conversation about sex with Tressa Colzione.

Tressa Colzione, who managed to look sweetly rumpled in the morning.

And who vehemently denied any infatuation for Bastralle.

Ali leaned his head back in the armchair, trying not to grin to himself and failing.

 _An attractive guy like yourself_ , she'd said.

Ali went to sleep that night in better spirits than he had in a long, long time.

He woke the next morning to an empty apartment. Tressa's door was open, but she was nowhere to be found. She'd had a quick breakfast, but he hadn't heard her. The clock on the mantle said he was up at his usual hour. So when had she gotten up?

He wandered downstairs half an hour later, but Tressa had left already, Jasper said, to answer a summons from the portmaster and, hopefully, catch a shipping corvette before it raised anchor. Of course she'd go herself, without sending a messenger.

Ali went about his day, forcing himself not to notice the voices in the warehouse out back, pretending he wasn't keenly listening for the familiar higher pitch of a certain young female merchant on her way back from her errands―

"Hey, boss, there's a guy here says he wants to talk to the man in charge."

Ali glanced over his shoulder at Don, the day's shiftmate, who was peering at him over the saloon doors.

Shutting the order book, Ali put the bell on the counter and strode out back. "You know I'm not the boss."

"Little miss said that while she was out and about, you was," Don flatly declared, as though the matter was settled. He motioned to a young man with a cart, standing in the embrasure of the warehouse doors, looking around him with awe at the bustle of activity. Around them, men were shifting cargo, making room for a large expected shipment. "That's the guy."

Ali dusted his hands on his trousers and extended his palm out. "Ali bin Maruf. Who are you?"

The young man shook his hand automatically, then said, "I need to speak to the owner― 's that you?"

"She's out," Ali said. "I'm authorized to do business on her behalf. What's that?"

" _She_ 's―" When he looked uncomfortable, the man looked even younger. Ali would have given him seventeen years, perhaps. At most. Nervously, the lad continued, "Sorry. I didn't realize― I was told I 'ad to deliver this to warehouse two on the Grand Quay―" He was clutching a crumpled paper in his hand. "To Mr. Gerard?"

Ali frowned, then turned. "Hey, Don―" He called, and the shiftmate turned, frowning. "Do we have a Gerard on the books?"

"No― I'm sorry," the lad interrupted, before Don could reply, "Mr. Gerard owned the concern 'ere three months ago. Is 'e― has 'e―"

"New ownership," Ali said, as Don returned to his business. "This is the Colzione Concern now."

The young man grew pale. He showed the paper, where illegible scribbles seemed to make sense to him. "No, I― _No_ , I _need_ to see Mr. Gerard. 'e promised." He looked at his cart in dismay. "'e promised 'e'd pay us."

"Well," Ali said, slowly, "this warehouse was repossessed and auctioned off again, to a new signatory. Whoever your Mr. Gerard is, he couldn't pay for his lease."

But the lad was hardly listening. He was muttered to himself with obvious dismay. "'e was― 'e said… 'e promised he'd pay if we got him a full shipment. This is the shipment. I told him it would take time."

Ali reached out, seized the lad's shoulder and steadied him. "Hey, it's alright."

"You don't understand," the lad said, and Ali saw he was suddenly on the verge of tears. "This shipment― We need that money, my brothers and I. 'e _promised_."

Ali's eyes slid towards the cart. It was covered with a thick leather tarp, but didn't seem overly full. "Well, maybe I can help you. What's in there?"

The lad shook his head. "I can't― I 'ave to find Mr. Gerard…"

"Mr. Gerard is no longer doing business here," Ali said. "You'll be lucky if you find him in Grandport, given the amount of debt businesses like these can rack up. Maybe try the taverns."

The lad looked speechless, his gaze vacant. Ali knew that look. It was the look he'd had after giving everything up and leaving his father. Being forced to start anew.

"Or," he said, more gently, "you can show me what's in that cart and I can decide whether or not Colzione can take your shipment instead."

"'e promised thirty thousand leaves," the lad said, suddenly hopeful.

Thirty thousand leaves? Ali nearly balked. No wonder Gerard had closed shop, if that was his going rate for half-filled carts. In his most optimistic voice, he said, "Well, uh, we'll see what you got first, and then I'll see if I can get you any good rates."

The lad nodded eagerly. He climbed on the wheel spoke and pulled back the tarp, revealing crates and crates and crates of tins.

Ali reached in, pulling one of the tins out of its crate, and pried the lid off.

And saw teeth. Plenty of loose animal teeth, rattling around in the metal can. Animal teeth, to judge by their size, but teeth all the same, in every size, from the sharp canines to the broad molars.

The next tin also had teeth, as did every tin in every crate. There had to be enough teeth to give dentures to a thousand creatures.

Resisting the urge to grimace, Ali closed the tin and said, "What are these?"

The lad blinked. "They're… teeth."

Not the brightest jewel on the necklace, this one. Ali sighed patiently. "Yes, but what for?"

The lad shook his head. "I don't know. Mr. Gerard wanted them. Lots of them. So me and my brothers went back to the Woodlands ― we live there ― and 'unted down as many of the werehares as we could."

"Werehares? What's that?"

"Giant hares," Don said, interrupting. He leaned on the side of the cart, clearly surprised by the number of tins. "Carnivorous, though, not like sweet bunnies from the farm. Folk stories say they steal children away from their beds. Hogwash. Didn't think they still existed."

"They don't," the lad said. "Not in the woods around Victor's Hollow, anyway. But deeper in the backforests, they're still around. Collars'll get them same as any other creature."

"Right," Ali said, slightly disgusted. He placed the tin back in its crate. "And werehare teeth are… did your Mr. Gerard say nothing about why he wanted these? He sent you off to... eradicate the species, by the looks of it, and he never told you why?"

The lad shrugged, utterly gormless.

Ali sighed. "Look, I don't know what purpose your Mr. Gerard had for a bunch of teeth. You don't know either. As far as anyone knows, these are useless― let me finish," he said, when the lad started to speak. "And I'll be hard-pressed to find any use for them. But," he continued, ignoring the churlish expression on the lad's face, "I get that you're down on your luck. I know what that's like. So if you want, I'll take your shipment for six thousand."

Don's eyebrows went up to his balding hairline. The lad gawped, but for a different reason.

"Six thousand?" He echoed, distraught. "But Mr. Gerard promised thirty!"

" _Thirty_ ," Don muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "At least twenty-nine too many."

"You can take it or leave it," Ali shrugged. "Maybe you'll find Mr. Gerard in one of Grandport's taverns, and maybe he'll have more than a tab to pay you with. It's up to you."

And then Ali gave the cart a hearty tap, and began to walk away.

"No, wait," the young man said, looking miserable. "I'll… I guess I'll take it."

Ali smiled. A quick look at Don, who was shaking his head, and he wondered how he'd explain his act of pity to Tressa.

"The little miss won't be happy about this," Don said, when the lad was gone, having donated even his cart and mule for an additional two thousand, which was more than generous, given the state of both object and creature.

They stood looking at the crates, and Ali sighed through his nose.

"Nonsense," he finally said. "Werehare teeth have got to be good for something, especially in this quantity." Especially if good old Gerard had been willing to buy them for thirty thousand leaves. Thirty thousand! A ridiculous sum. "Maybe we can sell them for the weight of ivory."

"Hardly any ivory to be salvaged from giant hare teeth," Don said, pursing his lips. "Maybe they can be ground into dust, sold to unwitting apothecaries."

"That," Ali said, "would be unethical."

"Yeah, like buying a cartload of crap with money that ain't yours."

Ali glanced at Don, annoyed. "What happened to 'boss'?"

Don shrugged. "I'm not explaining this one to the miss. You'll have to do that on your own."

"I was going to. Geesh. Will you at least help me unload the cart and take Finnula to the stable?"

"Finnula?" Don echoed, frowning.

"The mule. Finnula the mule." Ali gestured ineffectually, but Don didn't smile. He wasn't the smiling type. "Look, don't worry, if Tress doesn't want several dozens of pounds of animal parts, I'll repay her myself and offload them on my own time."

Don went off, muttering to himself, and called on several of the men to help. Then, Ali went back to the shop.

Only to find Tressa had returned, and, with her, the portmaster.

* * *

Tressa was not having a good day. Shipments were doing fine and the cash flow problems seemed on their way to being resolved, but an early morning summons to visit the port authority buildings never boded well, especially when the port authorities then requested to visit her Concern in person.

"It just seems… unlikely, Miss Colzione," the portmaster said. He was large and mustachioed and smelled faintly of stale sweat and tobacco. He reminded her a little of a walrus. "And you know that in situations such as these, we must investigate."

"Investigate what?" She asked, impatiently. "My business is all perfectly above-board. We haven't accepted any illegal merchandise, and we certainly haven't been selling counterfeit goods. I've respected all business curfews, I've paid all your supplemental fees on time, and I―"

" _Miss_ Colzione," the portmaster's assistant said, with a note of disdain even Tressa couldn't mistake, "It would be best if you let us perform the necessary checks without further obstruction."

" _Obstruction_?"

"We must see your logs," the man continued, almost sounding bored. "Wherever your sums are coming from, they must be accounted for. Grandport does not tolerate rule-bending."

"Rule-bending," Tressa repeated, astounded.

This was ridiculous. First, they'd suggested she might wish to move to a smaller warehouse, one better suited for her stature. And then they'd suggested she was getting herself into incredible debt for nothing. And then the portmaster had given her a paternalistic pat on the shoulder that had given her the creeps.

Now this ― because she had refused all their suggestions to move out. The Colzione Concern was doing fantastically well, she had argued. But they still wanted to see the books. They didn't believe her.

It was unfair. She was young, that was true, but she knew how to keep books. And what was more, she knew how to turn a profit. Just because she was a young woman didn't mean she couldn't hold her own in Grandport, same as the others. Did they do this to any of the other merchants?

"Your books, Miss Tressa," the assistant said.

"I only have one copy―" She began, and the men exchanged _looks_. Looks that implied she was the very guppy they thought she was. So what if she hadn't hired copyists? Not everyone could afford their rates.

"We shall take your books integrally, then," the assistant said. Then, with insufferable munificence, he added, "Worry not, my dear. We shall take good care of them and return them in a week."

"A week!" Tressa exclaimed. "No, I need them."

"The rules," he said, firmly, "are the rules."

"What's going on?"

Tressa glanced at Ali, who had just appeared behind the counter.

The portmaster straightened. "Are you the shopmaster here?"

Ali's eyes flickered over to Tressa, and he nodded in her direction. "She is. I'm the financial backer."

The men exchanged another look. "Forgive me, sir, the financial backer, you said? From… er, private funds?"

"Yes," Ali said, crossing his arms. He looked supremely haughty in that moment. "From Marsalim. I'm the reason she's still afloat." His eyes narrowed. "Is that a problem?"

Clearly, the portmaster and his assistant had not expected this. In fact, they seemed perfectly thrown off-kilter. Tressa wanted to rip their heads off. Had they planned on bullying her into moving out? Were Ali's presence and lies the only reason they seemed so uncomfortable now and had stopped?

"It's no problem," the portmaster said, with a significant look at his assistant. He managed a polite smile. "And, ah, might we inquire as to when said funds will… er… run out?"

"Why?" Ali asked. "Are you that eager for the warehouse to be empty again?"

"Empty!" The assistant said, amused. "It would not be for long. Why, many other larger merchant concerns have already expressed an interest, for whenever Colzione shuts down. Especially the warehouse's previous tenant."

"At improved rates, no doubt," Ali said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Well, I'm sorry you came all this way for nothing, gentlemen. This young lady has a very firm hand on my purse strings. We're not going anywhere."

The portmaster managed a polite nod. "Very well, sir, uh…?"

"You can call me Mister Ali," Ali replied, glowering. "And the next time you have an inquiry about where Miss Colzione's funds are coming from, you should meet with me."

The portmaster promised he would. In fact, he promised he'd return soon, to discuss the matter further. He and his assistant left with another tinkling of the bell.

At least they were out of her hair for now, which was good because Tressa felt ready to spear them through with a broomstick.

"What was that all about?" Ali asked.

"They want me out, obviously," Tressa said, in a black mood. She turned to him, frowned. "I thought you said you never tell a lie."

"I didn't lie," Ali replied. "You do have a tight hand on my purse strings, and I did back you with every last leaf I own. And you do owe your daily success to me." He shot her a cocky smile. "You're welcome."

Ah, technically right. Not a lie, then. She rolled her eyes. "You know, implications are lies of omission."

"It got them out of here, didn't it?"

It had. She sighed. "Yes. Thank you." She folded her arms on her counter and let out a pained groan. "Ali, the old owner wants his warehouse back. He's come into new money, and he's an old friend of the portmaster."

"What, Mr. Gerard?"

She furrowed a brow at him, confused. "You know about him?"

"Yeah," Ali said, reaching up to rub at his nape with discomfort. "So, about that. I might have done something stupid just now."

"More stupid than lying to the Grandport authorities about your cash flow?"

Ali hesitated, raised a finger. "Well," he began, with a breath, "technically, again, I must insist, I didn't lie. And to answer your question, yes. Potentially."

"Potentially," Tressa echoed, uncertain.

"I may potentially have purchased a worthless cartload of stuff for eight thousand leaves."

Eight thousand leaves for a worthless cartload of stuff. Tressa blinked at him. Ali bin Maruf was not stupid. So why was he confessing to something so astoundingly stupid right now?

"I felt sorry for the porter," Ali explained, and Tressa let out another groan of annoyance.

"Ugh, Ali…"

"No, I know― it's just, listen to this."

The story he told her was just as incredible. She followed him out to the warehouse, where the men were unloading the cart, and opened a tin of teeth, to find they were exactly as Ali had described: teeth. Lots of them.

"Ewww," she drawled, disgusted. "Teeth? Just… How many poor things did they kill to get this many?"

"A fuckton," Ali muttered. "But the amount Gerard had quoted seemed absurd, so I took a chance. Maybe they have worth."

"And you believed the porter?" Tressa asked, flatly. "You know that's a common tactic for them."

"No liar that good can fake stupidity that well. Who spends months hunting for products on request without an advance payment?"

"An idiot," Tressa conceded, with reluctance. "But still." She rattled the tin. The teeth inside made a noise like a maracas. "This is disgusting."

"I'll say," Ali agreed. "But I'll find a way to sell them at a profit."

"For now leave them in the unsorteds," Tressa said, exasperated. "Someone will have to inventory these." She shuddered. Yeah, she'd have Ali do it. "I'm not touching them."

Ali recognized the look in her eyes and rolled his own. "Fine, yes, I'll do it. It _is_ my fault."

She shook her head and smiled. "It's alright, really. Just knowing we might potentially have damaged _Mister Gerard_ 's ambitions redeems my morning a little. I'll be in my office," she added, when he shot her a warm smile that got all the way into her belly, "making copies of my books."

"Good luck," he said.

Tressa ignored the way his voice had dropped an octave to wish her that. It lended his voice a sort of charming seductiveness that she was wholly unequipped to deal with. Feeling more like an ugly duckling than like a competent swan, she left him to handle things and strode out.

By the Flame, she had called him attractive last night, to his face. Reaching up to touch her cheeks, she was unsurprised to find them somewhat flushed. Not that she had time to think about any of it.

The rest of the afternoon went by in merciful peace. The whistles rang the hours, until at last the end of the day sounded and she unfurled herself from her books, stretching out her arms and curling her agonized wrists.

It was telling how much she looked forward to seeing Ali again, to settle into a quiet evening with him. At last.

Flitting back out into the warehouse, she was in time to wave her workers off cheerfully. Ali had closed the shop front already. He was in the back, shifting crates around to make room for the tins of teeth.

"The whistle has sounded, you know," she called, as she approached.

He turned, hefting a crate. "I know," he said, and Tressa saw he was covered in a sheen of sweat.

Weirdly, this didn't bother her. She hesitated.

"I just," he said, with a breath, as he placed the crate he was holding securely on top of another, "wanted to get ahead, since I can't during the work day."

"Right," she said. "But you also need to take breaks. The pay accounts for that."

Ali snorted. "I know, Tress." He bent to pick up another box.

She liked when he called her Tress. Feeling oddly warm, she bent over to help him.

Together, they moved several boxes out of the way, clearing a small alcove in the shelving for the new crates of tins.

They reached for the last box― and Tressa paused, her eyes meeting his.

"I've got it," he said, with a smile, and hefted the box.

"Thanks," she muttered, and turned away. Gods, but he had a debilitating effect on her when he smiled like that. She had been warned, of course, that handsome men did that, and she'd witnessed the way Cyrus could incapacitate hordes of women with a single smile, but she had considered herself above those silly frivolities. And she had been so sure that her immunity to Cyrus and Olberic and Therion and Alfyn meant she was immune to all men.

She was an idiot, clearly.

She was contemplating her own naivety when his hand landed on her shoulder and she startled, catching herself by stepping backwards―

Onto his foot.

He yelped and she turned, her shoulder accidentally pushing him, so that, destabilized by his aching foot, he tumbled backwards. And of course, she toppled with him. They landed in a pile of packing straw, sending dust motes and straw flying.

Of course.

Well, it figured. It completely figured.

H'aanit would never have been caught off guard. Primrose would have been too agile to send them both tumbling down. And Ophilia wouldn't be clumsy enough to have landed in a man's lap, face squashed against his warm chest, and if she had― not that she would ― she'd have had the grace to make herself light enough, somehow, to not completely take the wind out of his lungs.

But not Tressa. Never Tressa.

Bifelgan, it figured.

Utterly frozen with mortification, she wondered where to begin. Her arms had looped past his stomach, in a desperate bid to brace, and her entire body was pressed against his, so that she was forced to acknowledge the damn shapes that lurked under his shirt― and her traitorous body reacted to that. He was solid, all lean muscle, and he radiated heat like a furnace.

Not that Tressa wasn't radiating heat. Her embarrassment alone would have rekindled the Sacred Flame itself.

"Tressa?" His voice rumbled, deep and muffled against her ear, and she realized she was still pressed against his chest. "Are you alright?"

Bifelgan above, she needed help. She started to scramble to get away, but the only way to push away was to brace against his chest and damn it, he was so firm and lean― why were men so damn fun to touch? Not that she was touching him for fun ― and when she was sitting up between his legs, she realized he was looking at her with genuine concern.

"Are you hurt?" He asked. He looked at her hands, her arms, and said, "I tried to cushion your fall, but I think I might have failed. You look… unwell."

Cushion her fall? Oh, Bifelgan and all the gods above. "Er―"

"I didn't mean to startle you," he added, with a wince. "I just wanted to suggest we head out to a tavern for food instead of cooking. We both had a rough day." His eyes went to her hands on his chest and he chuckled, making her whole body jerk with each laugh. "But I guess that's not my best idea."

His voice trailed off, and Tressa realized she was very close to him.

When the thought came, it was intrusive, sudden, irrational. Stupid, like her.

She wanted to kiss him.

And she couldn't be sure, but she had the inkling he was thinking the same thing. His breath was shallow under her fingers, his heart was racing. His eyes were green.

"Tress…"

Oh, Flame take her. She felt her face flush deep and hot, the last remnants of her common sense flapping wildly in the wind like tatters. She clung to them desperately. Gods, no, she was not going to kiss Ali. Not _Ali_. Ali who called her Green Pea and suggested she grow more refined. Ali who gave her all those cocky smiles and outsold her on the market.

Not _Ali_.

Still, his hand came up, took her chin, and she let him, wordlessly, feeling her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

There was no way she was attracted to him.

Right?

But then the question was moot, because Ali ran his hand to her nape, pulled her in, and kissed her.

* * *

Fireworks.

Ali had seen fireworks in his childhood, back in Marsalim, for the birth of the princess. He had seen explosions of colour, felt booming rattle all the way into his bones. He had seen big fireworks and small fireworks. He'd even seen one shaped like a dragon, all paper and wiring, spitting fire and multicoloured sparks. He'd seen massive booms in the sky, preceded by high-pitched whistling. He'd smelled the acrid scent of burning metals, had enjoyed the spectacle with such awe that he had been convinced nothing would ever surpass such as fantastical display.

Nothing in his life had ever compared to the magnificence and bombast of that fireworks show.

Until he kissed Tressa Colzione.

It wasn't like he had planned it. He hadn't known it would happen, so he hadn't exactly spent all day excited with anticipation.

And he hadn't imagined it before ― not for lack of imagination, but rather for fear it would be too tempting. Oh, alright, maybe he had imagined it once or twice, but only because it was damned hard not to imagine something when you were actively trying not to. Like trying not to think of elephants.

But there you have it. When she had landed in his lap, literally, Ali had swiftly come to the decision that a good merchant seized every opportunity.

So he had kissed her.

It was glorious, and Ali never used that word unless he was trying to sell soap to very uptight madams. He was quickly concluding that he had used the word in a wholly wrong context, nearly ruining its true meaning. Soap was not glorious. Not on this level.

And Tressa― she had buried her fingers in the folds of his shirt and was earnestly kissing him back, all eagerness and soft forms. She was light and sweet. She tasted like cinnamon, and that adorable little tongue, that gentle set of lips…

Ali let her kiss him willingly, melting into the moment without a fight. She was warm, she smelled nice, she was pleasant to the touch―

And she was pressing against his―

He broke away for air, laughing nervously, "Ahh-lright, I think we need to, uh, maybe―"

"We can't go out to the tavern," she mumbled, frowning. "I need to keep copying my books."

Ali blinked. Oh. That. She hadn't moved from him, and that wasn't helping his blood return to his brain. He opened his mouth, his mind went blank, and then he recovered his train of thought: "Right. Alright."

"I can maybe call for someone to bring the meal here," she continued, and Ali was rewarded with a close-up view of Tressa when she pouted thoughtfully. She still sat between his legs, uncomfortably close to a part of his anatomy that was responding far too eagerly. "But I can't― I mean, you can go out if you'd like."

"Or I could stay in," he breathlessly said, too scared to move.

"You could," she said, and he was happy to see her own breath was shallow.

"And I could kiss you again," he added, hopefully.

"You could do that," she agreed, very seriously.

This time, when he reached up, she leaned in voluntarily, and once again the fireworks exploded in his mind. She slammed his senses every time, sending a trail of fire flaring everywhere she touched.

Gods, and all she was doing was _kiss_ him. What would it be if they were naked?

The thought of Tressa naked did something to his body ― a sudden rush of heat flooded him, and he felt his increasingly painful erection throb a little.

Fuck, he needed to stop right now.

She broke away, and suddenly Ali was kissing air. "Wait," she breathed. "You said they were _werehare_ teeth."

Like whiplash, Ali found himself once again bewildered by her racing thoughts. He made a sound that was halfway between 'what?' and 'bluh?' and then suddenly Tressa was off him, pushing to her feet, leaving him in her dust.

"Werehares―" She started, then mumbled something to herself, and frowned. "But maybe if I asked Alfyn…"

Alfyn? Ali resisted the urge to scowl. Seriously? She went straight from kissing him to thinking about the apothecary?

Tressa whirled back to him as he stood, brushing himself off. "Ali― there's something I can't remember about werehares, but I have a sinking suspicion that it's not good." She looked at the crates of tins he was about to store away. "Who else knows about these?"

Ali gestured vaguely. "Me, you, Don, the guy who delivered them―"

"Do you know his name?"

Ali shook his head. "No."

Tressa screwed her lips into a thoughtful pout. "We should keep this to ourselves until I make inquiries. Here, help me cover them up." She retrieved a large jute tarp, and Ali reluctantly helped her cover the skid of boxes, then stood back, ruminating darkly about pretty female merchants, interfering apothecaries, and the vagaries of his pathetic love life.

Tressa wrote a note for the porters to move the skid back under a shelf alcove in the morning and pinned it to the tarp. Then, as Ali watched, she dusted her hands off against her skirts and made for the stairs up to her lodgings.

He was an idiot, getting all worked up over a kiss with Tressa Colzione, whose mind apparently had no room for romantic or physical pursuits―

"Ali."

He blinked, and saw she had turned and was looking at him.

"What?"

She smiled at him with a wince. "Would you mind coming along on my errands tonight?"

With a sigh, Ali admitted defeat. "... Sure."

* * *

"It's a bit late for the brewing of love potions," the apothecary deadpanned, when Tressa asked if his shop was still open.

The store, like the streets, was mostly void of activity. The last client had walked out before Ali opened the door for her, and the activity in the streets was cooling off. It would reprise in the morning.

"Love potions?" She echoed. Next to her, Ali raised a single brow, but said nothing. Looking at him filled Tressa with a strange glow, so she averted her gaze.

"Marketing," the apothecary deadpanned again. "Really it's a concoction for 'performance' problems." He shot Ali a meaningful stare.

Tressa blinked, but Ali didn't seem interested in clearing up what that meant. Instead, he glared at the apothecary. "I think we'll be fine," he ground out, between clenched teeth.

"You think?" The apothecary drawled. But he seemed not to care either way. "Well, if you say so. What do you want, then?"

Tressa shot him her most dazzling, winning smile. "I was wondering if you knew anything about werehare teeth?"

"Werehare… teeth." The apothecary echoed. He looked from Tressa to Ali, then back to Tressa, and his already hooded eyes narrowed further. "What's this all about?"

"Do they have… uses?" Tressa asked, lamely. "In, uh, apothecary circles?"

The apothecary studied her for a long moment. Next to her, Ali shifted, and Tressa ignored the way his presence felt like a radiance. "Well," the man said, warily, "I suppose. In a way."

He was uncomfortable. Menacing. Tressa wasn't sure why.

"We're just curious," Ali said. "Heard someone around here had a few. We're _merchants_ , so we want to know if werehare teeth have any market value."

Ah. Ali always had a way of mentioning things she tended to forget. Like explanations. Tressa would have slapped her forehead. Instead, she shot him a grateful smile that he returned.

The apothecary still looked at them with suspicion. "Well, they'd have market value in some circles. Not among apothecaries, though. We're concerned with the healing and caring of people."

Did he think they didn't know that? Or was he saying… Tressa inhaled. "You're saying werehare teeth hurt people."

The apothecary shrugged a thin shoulder. "They can."

Ali raised a finger. "Right, but if said teeth are no longer inside the jaw of the werehare itself― then what could you do with them?"

"Right," Tressa agreed, brightly. "Just the teeth. Not through a bite."

The apothecary scowled at them both. "Look, I don't know what you're playing at. I don't have any here, but if you manage to find some bastard to sell you some, you need to be careful with the dosage. A milliseed of pulp should be more than enough for your statures. Anything more and you'd die."

Tressa blinked up at the man. Then, she looked at Ali.

Ali was frowning in clear confusion, his dark brows furrowed together.

"Sir," he said. "I don't know what impression we've given you. But we're honestly just curious."

The apothecary sighed. "Right. Well, can't be too careful nowadays." He motioned for them to approach his counter and pulled out a tooth. This one was much larger than the teeth Ali had purchased. "For centuries we've resorted to extracting tooth pulp for all kinds of remedies." He showed them the fleshy pink inside with a dirty nail. "Cow pulp is good for the humours, some say. Others claim horse tooth pulp cured them of botulism." He seemed tired, but he had apparently decided to volunteer information. "But some pulps are far more potent than others. For instance, rockadillo teeth pulp induces mild numbing, all the way through to paralysis, depending on dosage."

Tressa felt a cold shiver go down her spine. "So… werehare teeth…"

The man stored the tooth away. "It's a rare pulp," he said. "Relatively unknown, actually. It's only begun to make an appearance in the past few months. In small doses it induces severe hallucinations. Overdoses are typically fatal."

Tressa frowned. Ali, next to her, had a grim expression.

"Why," she asked, "would anyone come looking for them, then?"

The apothecary looked at her, then at Ali, and snorted. To Ali, he said, "Born yesterday, was she?"

Tressa bristled, but Ali placed a hand on her shoulder and she held back the indignation that threatened to take over. Instead, he said, "Some wretches like to escape reality. I take it you disapprove, sir?"

The apothecary's lip twisted into a grimace of disgust. "I don't waste my time with people who go out of their way to hurt themselves. The real danger is having the poison applied to an innocent."

Poison.

Tressa wasn't sure, but she said something polite, and then she and Ali took their leave of the shop, stepping out into the street just as the man locked the door behind them. She looked at the dispersing passerbys and blinked.

Poison. She had poison in her warehouse.

Her fingers went to the Eldrite, and a memory of Alfyn came over her― his thoughtful frown, the way he discussed the legend of werehares with H'aanit and Cyrus. And the way he'd mourned that some people chose to drown themselves in hallucinations rather than face reality, at the peril of their lives.

Ali looked at her. "Tress."

She inhaled. "We―"

"We need to get those out of your warehouse," Ali interrupted. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

She knew he didn't know. She didn't blame him.

"Mr. Gerard," she whispered. "He came into a lot of money recently. He wanted the warehouse back. And the authorities were eager to help him." And it would explain the sums promised to the idiot hunter.

Ali studied her, all trace of his usual good humour absent. It did nothing to make him less handsome. "You think they were all in on it. That they realized they were going to miss the delivery of product."

"It's a stretch," Tressa said, hoping they were wrong.

"It's plausible," Ali corrected her. "Too plausible."

"They wanted my books," Tressa said. "They suspect me of taking the merchandise. They want to impede me ― I can't let them, they'll take everything."

"We'll fix it," Ali promised. "Let's go back home."

Home. There was something profoundly comforting about hearing Ali saying that about her humble lodgings above the shop. She relented and followed him. "Really, all I need is a safe way to ship the crates. I could send them away until we decide on what to do."

Ali nodded. He grabbed her hand. "Yeah, we'll get started on that first thing tomorrow morning." He squeezed. "It'll be alright."

Only it wouldn't be. They came within sight of the warehouse, and Tressa's gut turned to lead.

One of the wide doors was ajar. She had definitely closed it when they left.

She rushed forward, and Ali released her hand, though he called after her.

The thugs were rifling through her boxes unceremoniously. There were two of them, men she had never seen before. Well, who would? Grandport saw hundreds of newcomers and goers every day.

"Hey!" She called, and the two men turned at the sound of her voice.

Which was when she saw they were armed.

The doubt had to show on her face, because one of the men, the bald one, gave her a grin that he probably meant to be reassuring. "Come now, pretty, we're just passin' by, is all."

"This is my warehouse," she said, in her most commanding voice. "You are trespassing. Leave right now and I won't call―"

"What? The port authorities?" The other thug said. This one's voice was deeper, and his jaw was even squarer than his partner's. "Who do ye think sent us?"

"Hey, it's alright, Jeb," the bald one said, though he was still smiling that unfriendly smile. "Little miss is going to help us, won't she? Just tell us where the goods are, and ye won't hear from us again."

Right. That was likely. Tressa's eyes went from Jeb to the other one, then back. "Right, and the fact that I know who hired you won't make you silence me."

Jeb rolled his eyes, and the smile on the other one's face wilted immediately into a twisted scowl. "Too clever for yer own good, are ye?" Now he did smile again, shrugging. "Right, then, ye're not wrong: ye're not leaving this warehouse alive. Only here's the thing." He began to approach, and Tressa stood her ground. "I'll still make it easy on ye. Tell us where the goods are, and we won't rape and maim ye before we kill ye."

The casualness of his tone made Tressa more uneasy than his words. She'd heard threats before, too many to count. But she'd been armed, before.

"You won't lay a finger on me," she said, with more nerve than she really had. Deep inside, she searched for the magic she'd once been able to wield with ease, the spirit of wind that had once bellowed forth at the merest twitch of her fingers. It had been years since she'd last used it, and now she felt the lack of practice as keenly as an open wound. The dust at her feet fluttered, but little else. She needed a spear, and she hoped she was less rusty with it than with magic.

"Oh, I will," the man promised. "Several fingers. All my fingers. But if ye tell me where the teef are, I'll be gentle."

Her stomach twisted. "I don't have them anymore."

"She's lying," Jeb said, easily. "Thimy sold the teef to 'er this mornin'. Wouldn't have time to move 'em out again since."

Thimy? The hunter from the Woodlands? Had they found him? Hurt him? "What did you do to the boy?"

Jeb smirked. "A little less than we'll do to ye. Tell 'er, Ed."

"They'll fish him out in the morning," the other thug ― Ed ― said. "We gave him a nice steel shark fin to 'member us by."

Now Ed was growing close. Dangerously close. Tressa took a single step backwards. "It wasn't his fault your boss wasn't here to collect his merchandise."

"Nah, I reckon it wasn't," Ed said. From up close she smelled the rankness of his sweat. Soon, she'd be smelling his breath. She took another step backward. "Only see, 'e crossed the boss anyhow. And nobody does that. So tell me where the teef are, and I'll try to make sure yer corpse is recognizable."

"Why do you need those teeth, anyway?" She asked, stalling for time. Where was Ali? He hadn't entered the warehouse with her. Had he gone running for help? Bifelgan's purse, she hoped he had. The thugs meant business.

"Don't know, don't care," Ed said. "The teef come into Grandport, and then they ship out. That's all what matters. And ye interfered with that, ye did."

He reached out and Tressa ducked to the side, jogging a few steps away.

"This," she repeated, "is my warehouse. If your boss wants to make a deal with me, he can talk to me himself."

Ed barked with laughter. He turned to Jeb. "Ye hear that, Jeb? Little miss thinks she's big enough to see the boss!"

Which was when Tressa grabbed the broomstick against the wall and swiped at Ed's head as hard as she could. The broom handle whipped through the air and hit him with a hearty, satisfying 'thwap', then cracked and clattered to the floor.

Ed grunted, stumbling to the side. She had knocked his ear, so he was destabilized. No doubt his head was ringing.

"Get out!" She commanded, her voice wavering.

But Jeb was there, suddenly, on the edge of a snarl.

"Ye can say goodbye to peaceful death. When I'm done with ye," he said, as Tressa raced backwards. "I'll 'ave all the time in the world to rip this warehouse apart." Tressa's heart panicked when his fist closed around her wrist. "They'll find yer broken, mangled body in eighteen different crates, let me promise ye that."

"I don't think so," Ali said, cracking a heavy wooden stud against the back of Jeb's head.

Jeb collapsed like a sack of potatoes. Ali stood over him, pale with rage, his hands still firmly gripping his makeshift weapon. Then, for good measure, he turned to Ed, who was still staggering, and gave him a firm whack as well, this time with the edge, and Ed's nose exploded into a flower of blood. But the thug didn't notice. He fell backwards, and was out cold.

"Ali!"

Ali turned to her, still white as a sheet. His face was contorted with anger. "What is wrong with you, Tress? Just rushing into danger like that! Are you _insane_?"

They didn't have time for that. Tressa hopped over Jeb and raced for a coil of packing rope. "Help me tie them up ― if they aren't dead, they won't be out for long."

Already Jeb was grunting with pain. Ali gave him another firm whack, and Jeb was out like a light again.

"Ali, if you keep hitting them they'll bleed out and die."

"No better than they deserve," Ali scowled. "I heard them, you know. They said they're rape and kill you."

He was trembling. Tressa paused.

She'd never seen Ali like this, even in the face of Morlock.

It troubled her to see him so violent.

She reached out, placed a firm hand on his arm. "I'm not hurt. We're fine."

Ali looked down at her with clear anger. Then, he dropped the wood stud and shook his head, reaching for the rope.

* * *

By the time the local guard arrived, the two thugs were conscious again. All Tressa had to do was show her rental deed; the guards carried the trespassers away.

Ali watched her grimly. She played with fire, and she knew it, if her refusal to look him in the eye was any indication.

Rather than acknowledge the danger she'd narrowly escaped, she paid the guard captain an additional sum to have him post watchers around the warehouse. Only for the next three days, she promised, though Ali saw the money exchange and knew she could afford a little more.

When she finally bid the guards good evening and closed the doors ― and locked them ― she turned to look at him with a wavering smile.

It almost was enough to make Ali's anger melt away. Almost. Not quite.

"Phew," she said, striding past him towards the offices. "I think I underestimated how easy it is for just anyone to break in to these places. I should have consulted Therion…"

The thief. Cool and aloof and possibly his competition. Ali set his jaw and followed her into the office, watched her rifling through her documents. "What are you looking for?" He asked, flatly.

She pulled out an old, carefully folded paper. It was a letter, with a delicately stamped border. Stationary letter that had to cost a fortune. From where he stood, Ali couldn't make out the sender, let alone its contents.

"Here it is," she said, looking down at the sheet. Then, she looked up at him, standing in the doorway. "I'm an idiot," she said.

Better late than never. Ali forced himself to speak around the hard, angry beating of his heart. "No question."

Her eyes narrowed. "We're not going to talk about it." The fight. The danger. How close he'd come to losing her. Not that he owned her. Almighty Bifelgan, could anyone ever pin that girl down and really claim her? Maybe she was the better merchant. Maybe he'd sold his soul to her already. She'd already claimed everything else inside of him, so why not?

"So what _will_ we talk about?" He asked instead, grinding the words out.

"The solution," Tressa said, brightly, "to our problem."

The solution, if anyone asked Ali, was for her to never again leave his sight. She clearly couldn't be trusted to make safe decisions. "Which one? We have a few."

"The problem of the port authorities breathing down our necks," Tressa said, "because we apparently bought highly valuable drugs for a steal and are refusing to give them back."

"Maybe we should give them back. Cut our losses," Ali softly considered.

"Or," Tressa said, "we could buy the warehouse district."

For a moment Ali thought he had slipped sideways into an alternate reality. The words had registered, only they didn't add up. Rather, the sentence made sense, and yet it didn't. She was talking about something so absurd―

"Well," she said, looking back down at her letter, "we can probably only buy… two thirds of it? I'll have to check."

Ali opened his mouth. Closed it. Reopened it, only no sound came out. At length he recovered enough of his tongue to blurt out, "What?"

Tressa came forward and handed him the letter. "The Wyndham prize money."

Ali blinked down at the letter. One billion leaves. She'd won that some four years ago from Mr. Wyndham, in exchange for her journal. The most ridiculous turn of events any one had ever seen in Grandport. One _billion_ leaves. He looked back up at her, "Do you mean to tell me," he said, incredulously, "that you haven't touched this money yet?" He looked around them at the office, and, through its walls, considered the warehouse, the goods stored within it, and the vast operations she had begun to run, and paled. "How did you get _this_ up and running if―"

"I saved up," Tressa admitted, sheepishly. "I was afraid to spend the money, just in case―"

"Just in case?" Ali balked. "You―" He was still holding the letter. The letter of ownership. One billion leaves. Flame take him― "You had them put it in an account― It― You didn't touch it? In all this time?"

"I figured it would be good in case of emergency," Tressa admitted.

"You live in a warehouse!" Ali exclaimed.

"For now," Tressa said. She pursed her lips in thought. "Then again, maybe the wise thing to do would be to hire a guard for the night and give him the lodgings. Move into something close-by."

"Tressa," Ali said, "what are you talking about?"

She sighed, exasperated. "Isn't it obvious? I'm going to buy as much of Grandport's merchant district as I can with this money. And then I'll never have to show my books to anyone ever again. They can keep the measly remaining bits."

"But―" He blinked. "Will they let you?"

"Why would they stop me?" She laughed earnestly. "They can buy as many poisonous drugs as they like with the money I'll send their way. Only I suspect they'll regret their decision in the long run." She smiled at the rundown plaster walls around them. "This district has the potential to be something really special, just you wait and see."

And in that moment, Ali felt she was telling the truth. In her eyes, he could almost see the same thing she did: flourishing shops, busy docks, wares from all over the world, luxuries as far as the eye could see. Under her watch, Grandport could… it could...

It could be incredible.

"Gods, I love you," he murmured. Too late he realized the words had been said out loud. A flush spread across Tressa's cheeks like fire. His stomach twisted suddenly. "I mean―"

She plucked the letter from his hands and let it flutter to the desk behind her, then took a step forward. "No. Don't you dare take it back," she warned.

"I… won't?" He said, surprised.

"I don't do returns, anyway."

"Oh," he said. "Good…" He frowned. "Wait, does that apply to our business model or―"

He didn't get to finish his question, because she was kissing him.

* * *

The door closed at last, and Don led the shiftworkers into a round of applause. Ali smiled. Tressa brandished the title deed triumphantly, then hopped over to the men and spontaneously hugged Jasper.

"All hail the new trade master of Grandport," one of the men said, and Tressa basked in their cheer.

Oh, that felt good to hear, Tressa considered.

"For once, justice is well and truly served," she joked.

She had been able to purchase over eighty warehouses, fourteen of which were among the most sought after of Grandport. It brought her ownership to a little under sixty percent of Grandport's mercantile district, a transaction so significant and historic Mr. Wyndham himself had come to oversee it.

It had been a genuine delight to watch the portmaster and his cronies reluctantly sign over so much of their market share. And then be taken away in shackles. Even Gill, Wyndham's butler, had stifled a grin. In Grandport, money spoke louder than law, and seeing someone finally put the bullies in their place seemed to satisfy most of the merchants who had attended the weekly governance assembly.

Apparently, Tressa hadn't been the only merchant to be wrung for wares or money. Her choice to spend her prize money on correcting injustice seemed to have made her the most popular merchant in Grandport.

"And to think," Ali had said. "If they'd let their werehare teeth go, you'd have let them have their racket."

That was one way to put it.

Tressa slid her arm in his. "Do you think your father will consider you worthy of a partnership now?"

Ali shrugged. She had made him her business partner; his name sat under hers on all the deeds, as secretary. "Honestly, I'm finding myself caring less and less for his good opinion. Yours, though…" He leaned in, kissed her cheek. Tressa felt warmth suffuse her.

"Are you sure you don't want to destroy the teeth?" Captain Leon asked, from where he stood, arms crossed over his chest.

Tressa turned to him. "I mean…" She hesitated. "I guess I will if you change your mind."

Captain Leon shook his head. "No, I won't change my mind. If you think your apothecary friend might find a use for them, I will ensure he gets them." He nodded to Mikk and Makk, who straightened. "It wouldn't be a bad idea to discover some antidote to the poison. It's just that you won't make money on any of the goods."

"I know," Tressa said. "But…" She looked about them at the tall stacks of crates. "I think I'll be fine."

This was met with warm chuckles from the men around her. "That's one way to put it," Jasper said.

Don pulled out a corkscrew and began to work at the wine bottle Mr. Wyndham had gifted her. "I think it's time we gave the Wyndham varietal a taste."

"Go ahead," Tressa said. She was still clutching the main deed in her hands. "I'll be right back." She turned on her heel and raced to her office giddily to put it away.

She'd have to frame it, she mused. There had to be someone in town who could do that for her. Right now it sat on her desk, a source of glowing pride.

Her fingers went to the Eldrite around her neck. It was warm. She smiled to herself, the joy indescribable.

"Tress?"

She turned to Ali, who stood in the door jamb. They grinned at one another.

"What are you thinking about?" He asked.

She sighed cheerfully and let him embrace her. "I was just thinking I'm the luckiest girl in the world."

Ali snorted. "Well, you can say so. But I know talent when I see it." He kissed her.

Hm. He was good at this.

Still: "It's luck, too," she said, when they pulled apart slightly. "After all, we met." And she was the richest merchant in Grandport. And she would soon be seeing her old friends. And she had the love of the silliest, best salesman in the world.

He pressed his forehead against hers, eyes mischievous. "I guess you're right." His eyes went to her cleavage. "I'd love to get lucky too, by the way."

She made an exasperated noise, but he saw right through her. She gave his nose a light peck.

"Later."

"Oh, I know," he said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "First, the wine."

"First, the wine," she concurred, pushing him out the door. Against her skin, the Eldrite was heavy, and Tressa smiled to herself contentedly.

Yep. She'd stumbled on a treasure trove of her own.

Mission accomplished.


	3. Formidable

**This took a long time mostly because I had an unbelievable amount of work in October, and therefore did, well, no writing at all. Thank you for your patience. Things should speed up, relatively speaking, as we head towards the holidays.**

 **As usual, this is the censored version, but you're welcome to go hunting for the uncensored version on AO3.**

 **Love,**  
 **CM**

* * *

 **A Fitting Finale**

 **Part 3: Formidable**

* * *

Olberic saw the lady knight before she saw him.

He was running Philip and the other village boys through their paces ― lunge, lunge, turn, parry, lunge; a quick sequence that did less for their combat skills as it did for the strength of their lungs and heart ― so he was perfectly positioned to see all the streets leading down into Cobbleston's main square, if the small paved clearing in front of the mayor's house could be deemed that.

She was looking about herself, pretending she was at ease. To Olberic's trained eye, she was evidently on her guard, as all soldiers were, oft despite themselves. He knew that stance, that quiet watchfulness, that squaring of the shoulders.

She saw the boys training, and then her eyes went beyond them and found him. Would she wait for the lesson to end? Probably not.

She began to weave through the ranks of boys, evidently amused by their breathless conversations. Olberic didn't keep them from chatting amongst themselves while they practiced. Brotherhood and unity were built in the training yard. To stamp the feeling out was to create automatons.

John's practice sword flew backwards. She unsheathed her blade and stopped it in time, before it could land in her face.

The boys stopped. Most of them hadn't even noticed her until now.

"Milady," John stammered. His eyes went to the sword, to the white gleaming armour, and then to the lady, and he flushed. "Crivens, forgive me."

She smiled. "Never you mind," she said. "You had good form until you lost control of your sword." She tightened her grip on her sword hilt. "Tighten your fingers like so, and the blade will be less likely to swing wildly in your fist."

John tested the hold. It was not a grip Olberic had taught them yet, but it would be a good idea for the boy ― he was lanky and had undergone a growth spurt recently that had left him as awkward as a calf, all legs and arms and little idea of his new size. He smiled. "Cor, I think you might be right," he admitted.

That was somewhat ungracious, but Olberic hadn't gotten around to teaching them chivalry yet. Still, she smiled down at him. "Glad to be of service."

The boys hesitantly returned to their practice, and Olberic waited for the lady to reach him.

"Olberic Eisenberg?" She asked, stopping in front of him and standing straight. She would not stand at attention, for he was not her superior, and anyway they were not comrades-in-arms, but it was as close to a respectful salute as he'd get.

"Eliza Woodward," he responded, nodding politely.

The woman hadn't changed much in four years. Now at her full thirty years, she looked every bit as confident and competent as before, only with an edge of experience that had grown more refined.

"You remember me?" She asked, with an amused furrow of her brow.

"As captain of the Knights Ardante," Olberic recalled. "We crossed paths whilst you aided my traveling companion, H'aanit, in her quest to slay a beast."

Eliza's smile grew warm, reaching up into her eyes, and she suddenly looked much less like a severe knight and much more like a true lady. "I am flattered that you remember me at all, let alone the circumstances that brought us together. But then, I suppose hunting Redeye was not just any ordinary quest, even for a legend such as you."

Redeye. Olberic remembered the wretched creature well, its petrifying gaze… the sadness of its demise, the truth of its existence. He shook it off. "I hope all your fellow knights remain in good health after their encounter."

"They do," Eliza nodded. "In large part thanks to the efforts of dear H'aanit and her companions. My gratitude remains."

Olberic nodded, but said nothing more. They stood in comfortable silence for a moment.

"I've become a commander of the Knights Ardante," Eliza said, breaking a silence punctuated only by the steps and breathing of his pupils. "I am to report to Stoneguard for my new command."

"Congratulations," Olberic said, smiling. "That is no small achievement."

Eliza was studying him. Olberic waited. At length, she said, "You do not intend to ask why I have come."

Why would he, when she would no doubt tell him anyway? She saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes and stifled an obvious eyeroll.

But rather than respond, Olberic strode forward towards his trainees. "Alright, that will be enough for today," he said, addressing them. "Salute one another, then head home and wash up. Peter ― your father will need you at the fields tomorrow morning, so you are excused. While you work there, remember to work meaningfully."

"Yessir," Peter said, though in the typical haste of youth, his salute was sloppy and his race home was overeager.

Philip, John, and the others finished their salutes in familiar disarray, then scattered, and Olberic was left standing in the square with only the lady knight at his side.

"Your talents are wasted on a ragtag bunch of village boys," Eliza said, without malice. "You should be commanding armies."

"Those armies have skilled commanders already," Olberic observed, glancing at her. "These boys only have me. If they are to defend their village against bandits and marauders…"

"From Stoneguard, I can send out a contingent to clear these mountain passes," Eliza said. "If you think it necessary."

Olberic glanced at her once more. "Perhaps you should speak with the Headman."

Eliza shook her head. "No," she said. "It's you I've come to see."

Olberic frowned. "I am not the authority here. If you wish to discuss military options to secure the roads―"

"I've come to convince you to join the Knights Ardante," Eliza said, brightly.

Ah. Another one of those, then. Olberic shook his head and started to walk home. "I am not interested in joining any order. I am sorry that you wasted your time."

But Lady Eliza Woodward hurried after him. She caught up in relatively few strides, which was saying something. Well, she was taller than most. And then she hopped in front of him, now firmly a woman and nothing of a knight, and shot him a lovely smile. "Sir Olberic," she said, smiling up at him, warm brown eyes alight with quiet determination, "I will not leave until you have listened to me properly."

And for the first time in years, Olberic wondered.

* * *

She ought to have known he would still be handsome, Eliza Woodward considered with mild irritation.

He was just under forty, but that seldom made already handsome men _less_ attractive, especially when they kept in shape. If anything, his years had added a certain strength, a robustness to his frame. He was formidable, in the prime of his life ― strong, experienced, and that _jawline_ … She had not anticipated that seeing him up close would trouble her so.

No matter. His being handsome did not diminish her arguments. She could be persuasive. She had recruited plenty of men before, and secured their loyalty.

Of course, few men rivaled with Sir Olberic Eisenberg, the Unbending Blade of Hornburg, but that didn't have to be significant.

Eliza Woodward was building her command, and she would secure Olberic Eisenberg's assistance if it was the last thing she did. First, she had to determine what it was that he wanted ― all men wanted something, be it respect, acclaim, money, power… As new Ardante commander of the Highlands, she had the resources to give him at least part of his heart's desire in exchange for his services. She already had secured a Lead Captain's rank for him. It was the least he deserved. Why, if he applied himself, he'd no doubt surpass her own rank in short order. He was a natural-born fighter, and he had the presence, charisma and experience to command men in battle.

Flame above, even Eliza knew she could learn a few things from him.

All the same, when she entered the tavern, she was pleased to see that he had shown up. She hadn't counted on it ― he had very quickly shot her down earlier. That boded ill. But she hadn't come all this way for nothing. She would use this opportunity to size him up, to determine what strings she needed to pull, and then she would pluck away.

He was still wearing his fighter's tunic. By asking around, she'd gleaned that he organized the town patrols when he wasn't training young villagers. She could respect that. His sword ― _the_ Unbending Blade ― was never far. Right now it was propped between his chair and the wall at his side.

He'd selected a table on the far side of the tavern, and taken the liberty of ordering enough food for two. Gracious of him.

She approached the table and he stood, which surprised her. But then again, he was a knight at heart, just like her, and despite his scruffy leather and cotton clothes, the chivalry ingrained in him shone through, and for the briefest of moments she could see that he was… radiant. A shining example of knighthood.

That shouldn't have worried her, but it did.

"Sir Olberic," she greeted, politely.

"Lady Eliza," he replied, quietly.

He waited until she was seated before sitting back down. Eliza motioned for the barkeep to bring over a tall mug of dark ale ― damn but these mountaineers loved their dark beers ― and studied him.

He wasn't looking at her. He had begun eating again from the shared platter, where an array of salted garlic meats and fried root vegetables smelled delicious. There was a strand of dark hair that kept falling in front of his forehead. His temples were salt-and-pepper, though, and once again Eliza cursed him for his good looks. She had begun finding white hairs of her own in her red mane ― but hers weren't so conveniently located as to give her that aristocratic, effortless distinction.

"You should eat," Olberic said. "Unless you're hungry for something else." He made to wave the tavernkeep over. She stopped him, shook her head and reached for a salted potato.

The food was simple fare, but it tasted excellent. They ate the platter and drank their mugs of beer in silence. Eventually, Olberic leaned back in his chair and let her have what remained on the plate.

When she was finally done, she was stuffed. She leaned back and exhaled, and noted that he was observing her with what looked like amusement.

"Have I got something on my face?" She asked, smiling.

"Only a nose," Olberic said. His eyes were warm, and Eliza wondered whether the ale was stronger than she'd credited. "But I contend that hearty food is the surest way to kill an argument."

Oh, the sneak. She laughed. "I'm afraid it won't be that easy, Sir Olberic, though I commend you for your strategic mind." He had the kindness to groan when she continued with, "Speaking of strategy…"

"Truly, Commander Woodward," he said, with respect to her new rank, "I do not wish to waste your time."

"... We of the Knights Ardante would gladly welcome your experience," she continued, without heeding him. "Your deeds are legend by now, and having seen you in action, I am inclined to believe they are too modest."

"Your words flatter me," Olberic said. "But I would sooner the legends die."

She blinked at him, surprised. "What… What do you mean?"

Sir Olberic shrugged, evidently uncomfortable. "I was a different man, then. Some fifteen years have passed since Hornburg fell, and with it, my pride." He was looking at her frankly, directly. It was unsettling. "I have since atoned for my mistakes and made peace with my past failures. It is time for me to put those legends to rest and settle down."

"Settle down," she repeated, aware that she sounded foolish.

He nodded. "You are not the first to ask me to join their order. By Brand, you are not even the first _Knight Ardante_ to ask such a thing. But I have made my choice and I am content to fade into obscurity. There is no shame in that."

No, Eliza agreed. There was no shame in that. But… "Yet, to see such skill go to waste…" She caught herself, corrected herself. "Nay, not to waste, for I do believe you are doing much good in this village. But you have experience in war, something many younger soldiers have never known. Should Orsterra be brought to the brink―"

He frowned. "Are there threats from neighbouring nations?"

Aha. Eliza shook her head. "No, not as yet." But there was the string she needed to pull. His gaze had sharpened, his voice had taken an edge. "However, there are rumours of brewing threats within our borders…"

Sir Olberic said nothing, which she took as encouragement.

"I do not have complete reports yet, but the Woodlands are suffering from serious poaching. The Frostlands have noted that money is apparently flowing into the hands of less than upstanding citizens. The Coastlands are growing richer, too, though we suspect that is the result of funneling dangerous substances in and out of Orsterra by land and sea… Here in the Highlands, we've noted a rise in highway banditry. Something is brewing, Sir Olberic. And in hours such as these, we would heartily welcome your assistance."

Olberic sighed. "There will be other good knights. Other Blades."

She sighed. "Yes, no doubt." Fine, she had to try a different angle. "Still, I managed to convince the Blazing Blade to lend me his assistance."

The knight's expression changed utterly, though for all outward appearances he barely shifted. His eyes took on a different quality, a light that she hadn't expected. And then he smiled.

Gods, but he was handsome when he smiled.

"So Erhardt has joined you?" He asked. "I should think he would have preferred to remain in Wellspring."

"And he is," she said. "We've assigned him to the Sunlands command. I was transferred to the Highlands a short time after. If you wished," she said, "we could keep you here, in Cobbleston. No transfers. No cross-realm errands. You'd be a Knight Ardante for assistance only. We need you for training, really. I would, of course," she added, when he fixed his gaze on her and she realized she could only withstand it for a few seconds at a time, "be very honoured if you considered visiting Stoneguard occasionally to train some recruits… but I could also send them here."

He was still studying her. She could feel her face grow warm, and she hoped he didn't see in the dim lighting. By Winnehild, Sir Erhardt had not had this effect on her. Perhaps because he'd been so outwardly charming… or perhaps Eliza had never known how to respond comfortably to forthright flirtation. Either way, Erhardt had been too pretty for her taste, and he'd soon surrendered his efforts.

But Sir Olberic was not flirting. He was looking at her directly, frankly.

Eventually, he said, "I have found my place. It is here."

She sighed. Stubborn man. "Very well," she relented.

"Thank you for understanding," Olberic said.

She snorted, lifting her mug to her mouth, "I've not given up on you yet, Sir Olberic." She took a sip, swallowed, then scowled at him as prettily as she could. "This is merely the difference between battle and war."

Then, to soothe the edge of her words, she shot him a quick, friendly smile. But he did not respond in kind. His eyes were fixed on her face, and then…

Yes, he was looking at her mouth.

A beat. Suddenly, his eyes shot back up to her eyes, and then away, to the side, to study the vague mid-distance of the tavern, though he did not seem to look at anyone in particular.

Eliza licked her lips, thinking. Speculating.

Had he…? Was he…?

"Let's change the subject, then," she said, willing her brow to relax from its furrow of curiosity. "Are you married, Sir Olberic?"

His gaze swung back to her. It felt heavy when he stared at her like that. At length, he said, "No."

Interesting. He had, after all, traveled with four very beautiful women. Girls, perhaps. H'aanit had been of an age with Eliza, but all the others had been much younger. Perhaps too young?

She had to find out.

* * *

"Are you saying no one has ever caught your eye?"

Olberic had enough life experience to recognize a trap when he was about to step in one. This one, in the form of a beautiful woman inquiring about his past paramours, was about as obvious as the sun, or a sword to the face.

In other circumstances, Olberic might have sidestepped it. Perhaps changed the subject. Maybe he'd have warned the inquirer to mind their own business.

But she was… beautiful. Confident. Competent.

And he was honourable, but not _blind_.

"No one permanent," he finally conceded. He motioned to Steffon, the barkeep, to bring him another ale.

"I don't believe it. Not even in Hornburg, before the fall?"

There had been women, of course. That maid when he'd been a squire. Those sisters when he and Erhardt had only just been knighted. That widow who had been so lonely. A few ladies now and then, over the years.

"No one that remains," he said.

Only, now that she mentioned it, he hadn't had anyone in a while. Not only because he'd been, for years, as reclusive and secretive as possible, but even during his journey ― he'd been so preoccupied with protecting his fellow travelers, so comfortable, at last, with their antics and their dreams and their good cheer… that while they travelled together, he hadn't felt lonely. His instincts had been protective, brotherly, hell, _fatherly_ in many ways.

He smiled, remembering them fondly. Tressa and her outgoing confidence. Alfyn and his optimism. Damaged, kind Primrose. Oblivious, scholarly Cyrus. He remembered trying to teach Therion how to use the lance, and competing with H'aanit at archery. He remembered Ophilia's deft hands bandaging a wound.

He'd be seeing them next month. He looked forward to that. Eliza's question had roused a feeling of… loneliness in him.

"I can hardly believe that," Eliza said, in response to his reply. She was observing him through half-lidded eyes. Her guard was down. She had eaten to satiation, and was nursing her mug of ale. Yet, when she turned her face to the light just so, he was sure he caught a glint of amusement. "Hornburgians have spread out across Orsterra. Surely some of your past acquaintances would seek you out."

Olberic studied the dark ale in his mug. "Most of them are married now, with children."

He had never really wanted children of his own. He didn't hate them, quite to the contrary. His pride, however, was firmly in the camp of his trainees, and Philip especially, who was as good as a nephew. He liked young people ― their energy, their optimism, their devotion to what was right and good. Even now, he felt more kinship with the younger travelers he'd known ― Tressa, Alfyn, Ophilia ― than with the older ones, who had less need of his strength. The others were as siblings, but the younger…

Still, he was nearing forty now. It had once been a prime age for knights of Hornburg to marry. By then, they typically had estates of their own, and a growing fortune. Young women used to turn on their paths.

Olberic had always assumed he'd be married by now. But life had veered off course, and now here he was. A staunchly middle-aged knight, with a purpose and a path that resembled his youthful ambitions in no way at all.

"I suppose that answers my question," Eliza said, after his silence. She ran a finger softly against the rim of her mug. It was a sensual motion, but looking at her, Olberic did not get the sense that she was doing it on purpose. In the warm light, her hair glowed like fire, red and thick. "I would not have been surprised if you'd fallen for one of your companions, though."

He snorted softly. "My love for them is undimmed by distance and time, but it is the love of kinship, not lust."

Her eyes were on him. Something flickered in them. Then, she smiled, embarrassed. "Forgive me, I'm not used to hearing men speak of love that way without also trying to sneak into my trousers."

"Perhaps you've surrounded yourself with the wrong men," Olberic said, stifling a sense of smugness that was utterly unknightly.

"Undoubtedly," she sighed. Then, she brightened, and she looked younger than her thirty years: "All the more reason for you to join me in Stoneguard."

Gods, she was relentless. She reminded him of Tressa in that way. Except there was an edge of sensuality to her… Something wholly unlike Tressa. "My place is here, with these villagers."

"It could remain so," she assured him, leaning forward. Now the light caught on her lips, and Olberic realized he was looking at them again. It really had been a long time… "My own hometown is Flamesgrace, you know. My attachment to the city is not lessened by my assignment to the Highlands."

"And yet," Olberic pointed out, "you sit here, hundreds of miles away."

Her expression dimmed somewhat. "Yes." She paused. Looked for her words. "I do miss it, sometimes. The clear skies. The bracing cold. Fire heats you there in a way it simply doesn't anywhere else in the world."

That was true. Olberic recalled his own time in that city; its pure white snows, its hardy, elegant timber-framed homes. Now that he thought about it, it made sense that Eliza Woodward would be born there. She shared many of the city's qualities: she was beautiful. She was coolly collected. And she had a core as warm as the divine Flame itself.

"I began as a lancer," she said. "The guard needed more, and I was never destined for baking."

Olberic leaned back in his bench, studying her. When she spoke, her lips formed words swiftly, smartly. She did not drawl. She did not stutter. Sometimes, he'd see a flash of pale teeth, a flick of pink tongue. It was mesmerizing to watch.

"When I turned eighteen," she said, "I was sent to patrol the roads between Flamesgrace and the Woodlands."

"You must have distinguished yourself," Olberic observed.

"Like many others," she conceded. "I was fortunate that I was faced with challenges I could overcome, and that my superiors considered them worthy." Her eyes were warm, the colour of fertile rivers, but in the light they took on a golden quality. "Now I sit here, still forever in the shadow of living legends." She smiled. "Like yourself."

Olberic snorted. "I assure you I feel no pride in the fact."

"A mistake," she said. "You _should_ be proud. I do not envy your challenges, but I respect your ability to overcome them." She ran a hand idly through her hair, pushing it away from her face. "I want your skill with lance and sword in my practice yards, that is true. But I also want you."

Olberic felt a twinge in his gut that had nothing to do with honour. He thought he'd let nothing show on his face, but her eyes flickered in the firelight, and Olberic feared she'd caught on. But Eliza quickly amended her statement instead.

"I mean your name," she said, with a breathy laugh. "My newest recruits have no concept of heroism, no sense of valour. They hear legends and imagine them to be upon crumbling scrolls, in dusty tomes. They do not see what I see." Her hand reached forward across the table, the pad of her finger running on the grain of the wood, slowly, softly. "They do not see the gallantry. They do not imagine that men of honour still walk among the living. They _need_ to see." Her eyes took on an imploring quality now. "They need to understand honour before they gain power and find themselves untethered by morality."

Olberic sighed, averting his gaze. On her pink lips, every word sounded sweet, every syllable seemed caressing, and by that virtue, sounded true. "Is that what you told Erhardt?"

She leaned her cheek into the palm of her hand, elbow propped on the table, and smiled at him. "Is that jealousy I hear? No, Sir Olberic," she continued, when Olberic didn't reply. "I told Sir Erhardt that he would be well paid for the assistance. He has need of funds, you see, to repair houses in Wellspring. And he shall have them."

"Funds," Olberic echoed, softly. "How we the mighty fall." But he smiled at her to take the edge of his musing off, and she said nothing, eyeing him with amusement. "And now you imagine to bait me with something."

"I do not _imagine_ ," Eliza said. "I will succeed. There must be something you want, and I am determined that you shall have it."

Olberic dared not look at her. His eyes turned to the fireplace. The flames licked at the logs, silent but for the occasional crackling, alive and vivid, flicking, hot. He could feel Lady Woodward's eyes on him.

"I do not believe you can," he said, at last. At the very least, what he wanted was… Not honourable. Inappropriate. Unfair, as trades went.

"Oh," Eliza softly said, "I believe I must disagree." When he turned to her, she was smiling. She was not innocent, Olberic realized. She was no maiden, no virtuous prude. She had seen blood, had tasted battle, and this, too, was a battle of sorts. A battle of wills. One he was woefully poorly equipped for.

This conversation had to end. "Well, I have given my response. I hope you enjoy your time in Cobbleston."

"Will you show me around?" She asked, as he stood, rigidly.

He looked down at her. She seemed… different now. Subtly victorious. Perhaps she was, and not so subtly at that. "I fear there is little to show."

Her eyes studied him, and then her gaze slid down, to his lips, to his chin, to his neck, his shoulders, sinuously down to his chest, his waist, and _below_. And then they snapped back up to him, and her tight-lipped smile widened ever so slightly. "Isn't there?"

So she had noticed his gaze, then. Olberic felt the stir of interest inside him, and stifled it.

Enough. He swallowed, cleared his throat. "Good night, Lady Woodward."

She did not seem disappointed. Instead, she smiled gently, warmly. "And a good night to _you_ , Sir Olberic," she softly said.

* * *

He wanted company.

Eliza studied the candle on her bedside table in silence, several hours later, and nodded to herself.

Sir Olberic Eisenberg wanted company. Female company. Possibly… She screwed her lips, stifling a little surge of pride. Possibly _her_ company.

She had pushed him a little too much there, at the end. But men like Sir Olberic seldom responded to subtlety. Or, more exactly, seldom acted upon subtlety. And even in the face of open invitation, he'd opted for honour.

Eliza resisted the urge to sigh. Gallantry. A worthy quality in the arena. A risky quality on the battlefield. A genuine hurdle for straightforward courting.

Not, she reminded herself, that she was courting. Courting was for damsels. Courting was for young misses and young bucks, for civilians. Courting was a fantasy.

She took in a shuddering breath. Courting, she forced herself to remember, was not a thing that suited her. And it was not the sport of full-grown men, not a pursuit she could properly envision for Sir Olberic. Either this was a flirtation, or this was...

Nothing, it was nothing. Nothing had happened. Hints were not events. Teasing was not an overture.

"Good night," she murmured, to his shade, and blew out her candle. The inn did not stir around her. Perhaps she was the last awake in all of Cobbleston. The blankets were roughspun, coarse against her skin, and the mattress a little lumpy. She had taken a single room, had gladly acquiesced to the rules of propriety during her stay. As she lay there, staring at the ceiling, she revisited her day, and wondered.

She needed Sir Olberic. The knights Ardante had need of his skill and his moral rectitude. She needed to convince him.

The irony, of course, was that convincing him required that he bend on that moral rectitude a little.

She stirred, wondering why she was so comfortable with the idea. She had recruited other men, had encouraged them to make demands. But she had turned them away when they asked for _her_. All else, she had assured them, could be negotiated.

And yet, here she was, looking at the ceiling in the dim dark, thinking to herself that if Sir Olberic would only _ask_ …

What would it be like? She wondered. Her skin felt hot even in the cool air. In the dark, she could almost imagine him over her, towering, his body moving with firm strength. That, she was fairly certain, did not feature as an acceptable past-time in the inn propriety rules.

If she were to do it, she knew, it would have to be in his bed, not this one. If he said yes. If he wanted.

But he _wanted_. Eliza exhaled slowly. She knew male hunger. She had felt it echo within her, and she had decided he would be a formidable catch. Much better than those upjumped squires and cocky lieutenants she'd invited as bed warmers. Sir Olberic's eyes were keen, his gaze hot, like a tongue of fire. And testing him had worked, had eroded his composure, even if only a little.

Deep within, her feminine pride was flattered. Not that she often indulged it. But it was still there, pink with eager pleasure and green with jealous glee in turn, no matter how she stamped it down, no matter how she pretended it had no sway over her baser emotions.

Given infinite time, she knew, he would say yes. Given enough time, she'd find some way of convincing him to give her a chance.

But she did not have infinite time, no matter how she liked to pretend she did. She had a week, and if Sir Olberic did not acquiesce by the end of the week, she'd have to give up and return. There were soldiers to train, documents to sign, responsibilities to fill.

Tomorrow, she would have to try again, more directly.

There was a shout outside, in the distance. Eliza blinked, listened, wondering whether she had dreamed it, in the half-doze haze of incoming slumber. There was a long silence, and then she heard it again. A shout, not animal but human, indignant. Perhaps some lout leaving the tavern.

New voices rose now, and they were alarmed. Angry.

She sat up. Hesitated. Age-old instinct warred with the trained urge to get involved. She listened keenly now; the voices were those of a fight, a melee. Not the sort of sounds she'd expect from a sleepy mountain town.

Certainly not when the bell began to toll.

She was out of bed in a flash, her bare feet padding on the floorboards before she could think twice. Looking out the window, she saw nothing but the shale rooftops. The square and the bell were to the far side of the building, and the shouts were growing more alarmed by the minute.

And then there was that glow. The smoke.

Biting her lip, Eliza slipped on a vest over her nightdress, pulled her long boots on, and grabbed her sword, striding out into the hallway.

* * *

Olberic awoke to the sound of the bell tolling, though he could hardly say he had been sleeping soundly. Thoughts a-turmoil had turned into fitful dreams, into feverish images of red hair and brown eyes and hitching breaths. It was still night, though, and that was enough to drag Olberic to complete, confused wakefulness.

The bell tolling was frantic, and then Olberic heard the shouting, some streets away.

The bell stopped with a final, ominous clang. He was on his feet only seconds later, running a hand raggedly over his face in an effort to prompt himself into proper alertness.

The Unbending Blade was by the door. He seized its scabbard, the movement to cinch the belt around his waist automatic and rehearsed, stepped into his boots, and was out the door, into the night.

There was a clamour in the square. He followed the street, descending as other villagers began to open their doors, bleary-eyed and confused, snapping to focus as they saw him pass by.

"Sir Olberic―"

"Stay in, Maisie. Have your brother get dressed," he said. Then, to the next door down, "Keep watch, Mr. Walter. Have your tools at the ready."

Thus he went on down the street, feeling the village mobilize in his wake, only to arrive in the square and find utter chaos.

Someone had smashed all the windows of Mr. Yardley's General Store and dragged Mr. Yardley himself out of bed, beating him, while Mr. Yardley's son fought, and lost, against another set of thugs. Mrs. Yardley, for her part, was a frightful mess of anguished tears and screams. Someone had rung the bell because the thugs had started a fire, and the fire was quickly growing, fed by some of the Yardleys' furniture.

Olberic reached the commotion at the same time as some of the other watchmen. Dark-haired Ulfric, the miller's eldest son, charged directly for the thugs holding the shop owner, and tall thin Georg, from the dairy farm, raced to shield the son.

These thugs were well-fed, Olberic considered, raising his sword. The usual rabble that trickled down from the hills for fresh ale and quick pennies was generally malnourished and ragged, more likely to fondle girls than to create such swift violence. Removing them was always easy, if a little messy.

This, though, was rather more organized, and considerably harder to dismiss.

Philip joined his side, and with him some of the other boys.

"Form ranks," Olberic commanded. "Do not let them isolate you."

The boys had little discipline, but they could achieve that, at least, and Olberic turned his full attention on his foes.

Only to find them already engaged in a more even-sided combat.

Eliza Woodward was a flurry of steel and cotton nightclothes, her red curls flying about her head wildly as she swung and struck. Her cheeks were flushed, but she was focused, lethal. She was beautiful, if that could be said at all of such fierce violence.

Olberic struck down a man before the attacker could strike Eliza from behind. She noticed belatedly, and her eyes lifted to meet his. She nodded at him in gratitude, panting, before returning her focus to another assailant, and Olberic went about doing the same.

Together, they fell into an easy, natural pattern of assault, covering one another. It was always easier to fight with someone at one's back ― it drastically reduced the field to cover, allowing a fighter to focus on what lay before him. In other circumstances, he would have hesitated to trust his back to a fighter before seeing their ability, but Eliza Woodward evidently knew how to handle herself.

Someone had organized a fire brigade to put out the roaring brazier in front of the Yardleys' store, and with their combined efforts, the rest of the village fighters managed to rout the attackers.

It was Eliza who tried to capture one of the fleeing thugs, yanking him firmly by the collar, then dodging a wild swipe of the man's axe. Snarling, her target turned, grabbing her by the nightdress and pulling her in.

"What 'ave we 'ere―"

Olberic knocked the man to the ground, effectively punching the air out of his lungs. The rest of his fellows had already run off, and the villagers were finally controlling the weakening fire and organizing a reinforcement patrol to check the village perimeter.

The headman of Cobbleston, in his nightshirt, strode towards them, fury in his eyes. Looking down at the moaning thug, he said, "What is the meaning of this?"

The thug groaned, curling over.

"Who are you, man? Speak!"

"Let us ensure the village is safe before interrogating him," Lady Eliza suggested. The headman turned to look at her, blinking. Taking in the bloodied blade in her hand.

"... Forgive me, ma'am, but who are you?"

"Lady Eliza Woodward," she replied. "Knights Ardante."

"Oh―"

But he said little else, because suddenly the man at their feet was moving, swift and strong, and Olberic saw the flash of a blade in the fading firelight. Before he could react, the knife had darted over Eliza's arm, and she dropped her blade, leaping away with a cry.

Olberic reacted without thinking. His sword slid into the thug's throat with a gargle, and the man fell to the cobblestones, motionless, a heap that spilled blood.

It was over before Olberic could fully realize what he'd done.

But a glance at Eliza, nursing her arm, and he decided it didn't matter. Her vest, over her nightdress, was growing dark. She had been cut, and badly, though she seemed less concerned with her own wound than with recovering her sword from where it had clattered to the ground.

"Well," she said, wryly, "I suppose I should thank your quick reflexes, Sir. Though we find ourselves without a captive now."

"We will track them in the morning," Olberic said. To the headman, he added, "How are the Yardleys?"

The headman turned. Mrs. Yardley was a blubbering mess and both Mr. Yardley and his son looked in rather bad shape, but they were alive, and their store, though a mess, had not burned down. Glancing back at Olberic, the headman shook his head. "They'll live, I think. I'll have to look into this matter."

"And sooner rather than later," Eliza agreed. She was still in her nightdress, the vest on her back hardly shielding her from the crisp night air. "I should like to volunteer the assistance of the Knights Ardante in this matter."

"I welcome it," the headman said. His eyes slid over her wounded arm. "But perhaps that can wait until you've seen to your wounds. Do see to her, Berg, why don't you?" He nodded to the Yardleys, across the square, around whom other villagers were converging. "I'll see about sorting the Yardleys out for the night. We'll discover why they were so harshly targeted soon enough, I hope."

Eliza shook her head. "Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine."

Blood dripped down her fingers to the cobblestones. There was a ringing in Olberic's ears. He seized her other arm and firmly pulled her away.

"Sir Olberic―"

"Good night, Harry," Olberic said, to the headman, who nodded at him gravely. "I'll find you in the morning."

"We'll double the city watch for the night. I'll call for you if anything urgent requires your attention."

Not for the first time, Olberic congratulated himself on teaching Cobbleston's villagers how to manage their own security. Eliza was still arguing, though he tuned her out. In his hand, her wrist felt… small. Smaller than he'd have thought. She was a fierce fighter ― much like H'aanit, in a way ― but she was lithe, almost delicate, now that he had a hand on her. Not quite like Ophilia, for she was sturdier, nor quite like Primrose, who was all sensuous curves.

No, she was simply feminine. Strong and able, and feminine all the same, in a way that did not make him feel confident or comfortable with knowing she was trained to fight on battlefields.

His vision was a tunnel, his focus on the streets only. The man he'd just killed ― all for the mere offence of slashing at her ― had leered in that predatory way too many thugs tended to use. Primrose had once called those men wolves: hungry, slavering monsters in human flesh. To think of any woman struggling against such a bastard ― and Eliza's eyes had flashed with violence, not surprise. She knew men like that. All women did… It made Olberic furious, as only a few things did.

" _Excuse_ me."

He paused. Eliza's voice was indignant. When he turned to her, he saw she was still helplessly tagging along, her arm in his vise grip and her expression exasperated. She was trailing her bloody sword behind her, in her bloodied hand. Olberic blinked at the sight, hesitated.

"Where are you taking me?" She asked. Her eyes went to the right, to where the inn was, and where she'd reserved a room. He wasn't leading her there. He was leading her…

His gaze slid to the front of his home, a humble stone house with a slate roof and empty flower boxes. There was a single light inside, and the dying embers of his hearth. A cold house, if truth be told. An empty house.

He'd been about to drag her inside.

He released her hand suddenly. She did not stagger backwards, though she seemed mildly surprised.

Her expression changed, and she looked upon the house with a newfound interest. "Ah. This is your home, isn't it?" She studied the façade, pursing her lips, as though trying to divine some sort of greater truth about him through the examination. "How comforting that you do not live in the halfway house."

She was teasing him. Olberic shuffled his weight. "You are hurt. I have a very good healing kit inside. But I realize coming in may not be appropriate."

She looked at him, and a smile curled at her lips. "Indeed. How honourable and considerate of you to think of my virtue." She wiggled her bloody fingers at him. "But enough about that. Let us see if your mending is as potent as your maiming."

And before Olberic could say anything else, she pushed his door open and strode into his house.

* * *

Eliza Woodward was many things, but she was not stupid. When a woman was granted the opportunity to see the living space of a confirmed bachelor, it was rarely ill-advised to seize the chance. What dreadful horrors could possibly await?

Not that she expected horror. Sir Olberic was not, despite his great reclusiveness, a monster. He could be dangerous. To others. She, however, did not fear him.

Indeed, what she saw stepping into that cold grey house was utterly predictable: a cooling hearth, an obvious lack of colour, and a distinct sense of… blandness. This house, though evidently lived in, was not a home. Its rushes were worn but clean; the dishes were in fair condition, the sheets on the bed were disturbed, though from the way they were still tucked in the corner she knew that he kept them orderly and spartan by day, much like everything else in the room she could see. There were some weapons on the wall, and a few washbasins piled in the corner. But few decorations adorned the walls, and the smell in the air was earthy, cool, neither comforting nor repelling.

"Hm."

Sir Olberic turned to look at her. "What?"

She pursed her lips in thought. "It's like… you don't really live here."

He studied the space. His eyes skipped over the same furniture pieces, the same bland lack of flavour. "I've been here for many years now."

Perhaps, but his heart was not in it. She wondered at the space. He had not struck her as dispassionate, despite the obvious lack of appropriation in the house. Indeed, she had a feeling there was something truly warm inside him, something valorous and proud ― so where was his heart, if not here?

"Is something the matter?"

She turned to him. He was watching her. Something flickered in his eyes, something that looked almost adorably like concern, or trepidation. It was too much. She tried not to smile and failed.

"Sir Olberic, something tells me your heart is somewhere out in the world, wandering the roads."

His stance shifted, almost imperceptibly. And then he did something that astonished her.

He smiled.

Again.

Oh, Winnehild. Eliza could have sworn she was immune to smiles. No, she knew she was. Even beautiful experienced Erhardt's smiles had not swayed her off her path. But this? Olberic Eisenberg's smile was warm, honest ― it crinkled at the corners of his eyes, and he averted his gaze almost bashfully. In that moment, despite the salt-and-pepper hair, despite his middle age, he was transformed, looking almost young again.

Oh, by the Flame. Eliza forced herself to take a deep, shuddering breath.

"You're right, Lady Woodward," he finally admitted. His eyes had mercifully skipped away from her to look around himself again. "I fear much of my care is split into eight ― each one of my traveling companions having left with their own fragment when we parted ways, leaving me with but a fragment."

It was a softer sentiment than she'd expected, and so she remained quiet, hoping he'd continue. He inhaled, then strode over to a wooden cabinet, pulling out a first aid mending kit. And, blessedly, he continued to speak.

"When Erhardt and I had a falling out―" He glanced back at her. "You've heard of this from him, I imagine."

She had. She nodded. He nodded to himself, then returned his attention to the kit, rifling through orderly supplies.

"When Hornburg fell and I was cast into the world, I sought an anchor. Anything to guide my efforts and give me purpose. For a while, I thought myself content with Cobbleston. It sheltered me, and in turn I sheltered it." He brought the kit closer, and she saw he was holding a phial of antiseptic. She recognized the smell when he uncorked it. "But then I was given an opportunity to lay my demons to rest, and I pursued it without the slightest hesitation. Cobbleston is a fair town. Its people are hardy and worthy of care. And yet I left it behind as easily as one changes shoes. I traveled the world alongside my companions ― it was the first time since Erhardt I could speak freely." He motioned to her sleeve. "You should remove your vest."

Eliza had been so absorbed by his words and the miracle of his earnest admissions that she had almost forgotten the throbbing pain of her cut. She glanced down at her arm, startled. "Oh."

He helped her. His hands were firm, but gentle. She shrugged out of her vest and realized the dark wool had absorbed much of her blood. It peeled off her skin wetly, and felt heavier than it ought to.

She could hardly see her wrist, it was so caked in blood. Olberic lightly lifted her hand and frowned.

"It's fine," she breathed, wondering if the lightness of her breath was from his scrutiny, his touch, or her desperate need to hear him speak further.

His eyes flickered over to her, and she saw his skepticism. But he said nothing, and strode instead to a barrel of water by the sink, from which he filled a small iron basin. He returned with the cool water, placed it on the table, pulled out a chair, and pushed her into it. His movements were economical, kind, but they brokered no argument.

She let him do as he wished, trying to ignore the flutter of her pulse when he picked up her hand again and dipped it into the water, then began to rub at her skin, gently. Her blood made volutes of fading red in the basin, but it didn't matter. "You and your companions… You seemed happy."

"We were. I was. We knew it was a temporary adventure. And yet I came to consider them family. They never betrayed my trust. They were with me until the end. Until―" He paused. Eliza studied him. He gave a breath, then a small smile played on his lips. "I know now they would stand with me unto the end of the world, if necessary."

"You sound certain," she said, amused.

"I am certain." His fingers were callused. They felt rough against her wrist. But she liked it. It felt alien and wonderful. By now the water had cleared away much of the blood, and the cut on her arm was finally apparent. It was an ugly gash, but mercifully shallow. She'd cringed away from the blade and it had no doubt saved much of her wrist's future mobility. Sir Olberic studied the wound with critical interest, the eye of someone who had no doubt seen much, much worse. "When we parted ways, I think I knew I would never really have such a solid bond with anyone ever again. These days I look forward to seeing them every year. Keeping hearth and home here is merely functional. Something to shield me while I wait."

His eyes were warm, far away. Yet Eliza felt a pang of sadness for him. She had known he was a knight of Hornburg, but she had not fully understood his grief and loss.

"Is keeping the good people of Cobbleston safe the only purpose you have found in their absence?"

Olberic did not reply. He raised her hand out of the water and began applying the antiseptic. A glance and Eliza knew no stitches would be necessary. A bandage― and there his hand reached for a roll of gauze.

He pulled out a chair next to her and sat, her arm outstretched between them. His fingers were deft, steady, competent, and he wrapped her from the heel of her hand to the elbow. It was difficult not to react, not to shudder. His touch was warm, and each pass was firm ― and Eliza was suddenly quite aware of the silence around them, of the way the village had stilled in the night.

And her eyes darted to his bed ―

"I guard Cobbleston because Cobbleston needs me," Sir Olberic finally said. "I am a knight first, and I have vowed to protect those in need." He tucked the bandage under itself and she felt the way his callused fingers felt on the soft skin inside of her elbow. He paused there, his touch steady and warm and arresting― then retreated. "You say you would send recruits to me, here, but we both know Cobbleston does not have the necessary facilities to host them. It is a pastoral village, with more sheep than people. It does not have the makings of a military encampment."

Eliza heard the note of apology and finality in his voice, and she almost believed him.

"There must be something," she breathed, in the stillness of the dark. His profile was illuminated by a single flickering candle, casting the lines and planes of his face into stark contrast. He was handsome. Unbelievably so. "Something… I can do. To convince you to try."

He wasn't looking at her. He was avoiding her gaze.

For what felt like a long pause, she observed him. Observed the lines of his neck, the way they disappeared into his nightshirt, which gaped open and dipped low, revealing a broad, tan chest and a smattering of coarse dark hair. He was muscular and broad, not at all the lithe and lean musculature of youth, but the hard expanses of a man who was simply strong and otherwise unconcerned with displaying his form. He was scarred ― there were thin welts of pinker skin here and there, vanishing under his clothes. That did not make him less attractive.

He was wearing trousers, but they pulled over strong thighs. He had the kind of legs that convinced her he'd be able to pull her to safety, off a battlefield, without thinking twice about it.

In truth, all Eliza wanted to do was touch him. She wondered if he was as hard as he looked. She wondered what that hair would feel like under her fingers.

It made thinking difficult. All she could think about was the calluses on his hands. And how they'd feel on her ribs. It was shameful. She ought not to stare.

So why, then, was _he_ the one who wouldn't look at her? He was staring off to the side, his eyes unfocused, clearly averted, clearly trying not to look at her. Almost like he was… uncomfortable. Like he feared looking at her.

Eliza felt the truth in her gut. Men like Olberic Eisenberg feared nothing. They did not fear war, or death, or even the ending of the world. Men like Olberic Eisenberg definitely did not fear young female knights nearly ten years their junior.

Unless…

She felt her breathing change with the tantalizing possibility. A shiver ran over her skin.

Oh, by the gods. She was only wearing a simple cotton nightdress. She was suddenly aware of how little it shielded her from his gaze ― he was being proper. Respectful.

And yet.

"Sir Olberic," she tried again, trying to force her voice to be firm, "please look at me."

He was still for a moment. His eyes went from the table to the far wall, and then he turned his head and looked at her directly.

And she saw it.

His eyes were dark. His lips were pressed together in a grim line, but his eyes, at least... his eyes were deep and alert ― and hungry.

A thrill ran from her nape to her core, and something definitely female inside hopped with excitement.

"Surely," she said, aware her voice had changed, had deepened with something visceral, "there is something I can do for you."

There was no mistaking her meaning. Sir Olberic's gaze did not change, but she noticed the way he frowned, ever so slightly, and the tendons of his neck worked, like he was tensing his jaw, then relaxing it.

"Lady Woodward," he began. "I should take you home."

His voice was hoarse, strained. It was flattering to know he was striving so very hard to be good, that the effort was so genuine. But the words were not at all what she wanted to hear.

"Sir Olberic―"

"You want a quid pro quo," he said, and now he did avert his gaze, as though looking at her burned him. "My lifelong services for one night of yours. But that would be wrong." He exhaled, and Eliza was sure his breath shuddered ever so slightly. She inhaled to speak, but he cut her off. "I cannot ask that a woman so beautiful debase herself merely to secure my commitment. If I were to have you, it would be willingly, _without_ attachment, or not at all." His lips pulled up into a smile that felt forced. "If you will not offer, then I will not take through a lie. Though I assure you, I have never felt so tempted."

She made a sound to argue, but he stood and strode to the door, which he swung open.

"Please," he said, still avoiding her gaze, "allow me to escort you back to the inn."

She knew the note of finality in his voice, and she felt herself flush all the way to her ears. In that moment, fighting against the urge to beg, she felt like a wanton. And worse, he was right. She had herself convinced that one night would secure a lifetime commitment from him, and that she'd enjoy both the short-lived intimacy and his professional knightly ability thereafter. It was an utterly unfair exchange ― and she had diminished them both by suggesting it.

She stood, grabbed her blood-soaked vest, and strode past him into the night. "No need, Sir Olberic," she breathed, before he could follow her out. "I know my way." She swallowed nervously, and clutched her vest to her chest, painfully aware of how hard her breasts ached for something she would not entertain. "I realize I have shamefully presumed upon your intentions, and I hope you will forgive me." Then, before he could feel compelled to reassure her, in that way all honourable men did, she added a hasty, "Good night," and left as swiftly as a dignified walk could allow.

But she felt his gaze on her the whole way down the street, and when she turned the corner, she saw he was still standing in front of his door, immobile in the night.

* * *

'Sir Olberic,' Primrose had once tisked. 'So honourable. So painfully, adorably, heart-achingly, foolishly honourable.'

He had taken mild offense at the dancer's teasing, all those years ago. Her childhood lady's maid ― Arianna? ― had made eyes at him, and he'd politely declined, feeling honour-bound to protect the woman rather than slake any possible lust. No hard feelings, of course. But Primrose and Alfyn and even Therion had shaken their heads at him.

Sir Olberic, the foolishly honourable.

He slammed his forehead against the panel of his front door once, twice, thrice, each adjective taunting him. Gods. Damn. It. All.

It was the right thing to do, of course. His moral compass had never led him astray.

But Olberic was not just a moral compass with a sword. He was a man, too. A man whose anatomy was now violently raging against him, mentally abusing him relentlessly.

Sir Olberic, the honourable fool.

 _Surely there is something I can do for you_.

Gods damn it all. Was it even legal for women to say things like that? In that tone, that indisputably clear tone, that promised more sultry words and throaty laughs?

Eliza Woodward had all the trappings of a knight and all the feminine wiles of a siren. Damn it all.

Hell, if he closed his eyes, he could still see her, imprinted on the back of his eyelids like the fading image of a blinding sun, that disheveled hair like a red halo around her face, and the way the candle had cast flickering light on her flawless skin. And that nightdress. That damned nightdress. The plainest cotton, but just a little too thin for his sanity, just tantalizingly resting on curves no woman ought to have. And those eyes, dark and alive with heat, with lips that looked like dark pink petals, soft and plump and―

He made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a grumble, the self-loathing bubbling inside with almost as much ferocity as his blood boiled with need.

He pushed away from the door, turning to look at his house. His stark impersonal house. The basin was still sitting on the table, the water pink. The mending kit was still open and unsorted.

Bringing Eliza Woodward here had been a mistake. Tending her wound had been necessary, but he ought to have brought his kit to her. Now that she had stepped into this house, sat in his chair, studied his space with so much interest, Olberic knew her presence had been a mistake.

Because now that she was gone, he could see the emptiness.

He chucked his shirt off, the inner turmoil difficult to handle. He hadn't felt this way since before his journey. Eliza Woodward was not like his fellow travelers. She filled him and emptied him all at once. It was terrifying, and Olberic had once battled the evil god Galdera, so he knew a thing or two about terror.

He anchored his feet into the floor. He was not going to run out into the street. He was not going to knock at the inn door. He was going to go to sleep and reaffirm his decision as often as needed for it to sink in.

It was the right thing to do. The honourable thing to do.

By Brand above, he was nearing forty. Surely he had to have some sort of grip on himself by now.

He needed to act as Cyrus would. Cyrus, who had hordes of women chasing after him, and seemed utterly content not to notice any of them. Not that it would help. Cyrus was merely oblivious. If temptation ever struck him, he certainly had never given sign of it.

Therion would have given in, probably. Alfyn would have given in, too, only then he'd have apologized.

But Olberic… Olberic had to be strong. He had to be firm. He was over a decade older than either Alfyn or Therion. Their mistakes could not be his.

He lay on his bed and stared at the dark ceiling. Eliza Woodward, her lips parted, her eyes dark, floated in front of him. She had been so soft under his fingers, all firm muscle and silky skin. She was in the prime of her life, at the apex of her beauty, and still time would likely never rob her of that sensual charm, that warm smile.

He ached. If she returned right now, he knew, he'd be powerless against her.

His ears strained, hoping to hear a knock at the door. But none came.

And so morning found him grumpy and miserable.

The night's events had the entire village in a tizzy. In all, seven men had been slain, and the Yardleys were still resting, having explained all they knew to the headman and three of Olberic's most trusted watchmen.

Olberic found Lady Eliza already speaking with them by the time he arrived in the town hall.

Before he could stop himself, his eyes drank her in, noting her crisp uniform, her brushed hair, the polish of her boots. Her arm was sleeved, but he could see the edge of his bandage peeking out of her cuff, and he was comforted that, unlike proud H'aanit or careless Tressa, she was wise enough to nurse her own wounds.

Taking a deep, silent breath, he approached.

"... It's been a growing problem," Friedrich, a night watchman, said. He was speaking to Lady Woodward with respect and deference, his brow furrowed in concern. "But until now they've only attacked merchant caravans. They never came directly for the village."

Eliza nodded. "I've seen briefings on the matter, but I hadn't heard of any reports since taking my new posting."

"Do we have any news?" Olberic asked.

Eliza tensed. Imperceptibly. And then she straightened, and turned to look at him with dispassionate professionalism that oughtn't have stung quite so much.

"Oh, Berg," the headman said. "You're here, good. The Yardleys swear up and down they didn't know the thugs. They've been soundly robbed. It looks like those mountain ruffians are growing bolder, stealing from a closed shop in the heart of Cobbleston."

That was an understatement. Under Olberic's watch, Cobbleston had grown far more aggressive in its defences. "They came at the peril of their lives," he said. "And many died here. What manner of desperation could have led them to it?"

"I might know the answer to that," Eliza said, when the other men shrugged helplessly.

He turned his attention to her. Even in the cold light of morning, she was beautiful. Even though she deliberately kept a veil between them now. Her gaze was just a little unfocused. She was staring through him, rather than at him, a nuance that unsettled him more than he wanted it to.

"Any insight," Harry said, "is more than welcome, Lady Knight."

She turned to the headman, almost grateful that she had a new person to look at. Olberic stifled his disappointment. It was only fair. She was a beautiful woman, and he had turned her away. No sane man would. No doubt her pride was hurt. He almost didn't blame her. After the near sleepless night he'd had, he felt that maybe he was utterly misguided.

"A few weeks ago, news reached me that there was a growing problem with addictions to hallucinogens among some poorer populations, and that a recent influx of the substance had been stymied. As a result, what stocks of the hallucinogens remained in circulation are now worth double, triple, and sometimes even quadruple their base price. I was warned that more extreme behaviour may occur from various criminal elements in an attempt to secure the regular doses."

The men looked at one another. Then, Harry pursed his lips in thought. "You're saying the thugs were just trying to fund their fix."

Lady Eliza shrugged. "It seems like the most likely explanation."

Friedrich sighed. "By the Twelve, it's the damnedest thing. Every time we reinforce our defences, the world throws a bigger problem at us."

Olberic was having the same reflection. His thoughts were churning, calculating the new watches he might have to set up. The village was already on the verge of overworking itself. Aside from the obviously necessary farmwork and shepherding, there were only so many able-bodied men and women he could train and put on watch. At some point, a healthy population needed sleep.

His dark thoughts were echoed on the headman's face. "I mislike this. It was bad enough that caravans feared to visit. We'll never secure necessary goods, or sell our own, if this continues."

"I would never dare to presume," Lady Eliza said, softly, "as I see your village takes great pride in ensuring its own protection, but…" She inhaled. Her eyes darted to Olberic's, then away. "Perhaps I might offer a solution, as Highlands Commander of the Knights Ardante?"

Harry rubbed at his moustache, uncertain. "We don't have a Church of the Flame here," he said, softly.

"Nor any permanent barracks," Eliza said. "As was firmly pointed out to me recently."

Olberic felt the sting of that barb and pressed his lips together.

"However," she continued, "it seems obvious to me that Cobbleston may benefit from a small military presence here. The Knights Ardante might reinforce your watch, help to patrol your roads, and protect your people and cattle. In exchange, we would ask permission from the citizenry to build barracks and a shrine ― if only to house the patrols."

The men seemed uncomfortable. Harry shook his head.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Lady Woodward," he said, politely. "But I think I speak for the village when I say we do not want our governance to suffer outside interference."

"Then you shall not," she said, simply. She straightened. She was all pride, elegance and detachment. "It's true the Order tends to seek a foothold in every town and city, if only for practical reasons. My reasons for suggesting this aid are practical too. You may imagine us to be a collective of religious zealots, but in truth, I want my men to train here." She looked at Olberic, then, really looked at him, and smiled serenely, with not a trace of the turmoil he felt. "Hopefully under your very own head of the watch. Given this opportunity, we'd have no reason to impose any further."

All eyes turned to Olberic. He sighed.

"Berg―" Harry started, before correcting himself. "I mean, Sir Olberic, of course, this is up to you. Do you believe the watch can handle these aggressors? If not, could you handle an influx of knights to train?"

Olberic was silent for a long moment. And then he looked at Eliza.

And he knew there was only one way forward.

"As long as the safety of Cobbleston is of prime importance."

"If you are willing to train my men," she said, and now her eyes were warm again, and Olberic felt something inside that wanted to thaw, "then they will be honour-bound to protect the town where they are garrisoned."

They shook on it.

As they exited the town hall, after leaving the headman and the watchers to their own affairs, Olberic stepped into the sunlight and realized he was a right proper fool.

Lady Eliza slipped on her gloves, her white uniform gleaming in the light. "Thank you for your assistance, Sir Olberic."

 _Brand almighty_. He was a complete, unmitigated fool. "Did you know you would convince the headman to allow the Knights Ardante to come to Cobbleston so easily?"

She turned to him, brown eyes speculative in the light. "Most men are easy to convince." She gave him a perfunctory smile. "All one needs to do is give them what they want."

 _I should have had her_.

He cleared his throat, feeling like he was a third of his true age, like the ground lurked under his feet. "If you knew that the roads were growing dangerous and that such incursions were likely―"

She sidled up to him and peered up at him, gaze warm and intelligent. "If I knew, after last night's attack, that I could convince you and your village to let me hire you on for the benefit of the Knights Ardante, why did I not simply say so?" She smiled at him sadly. "Is that what you want to know?"

When she was close, he wasn't sure how to speak. He nodded, frowning.

She studied his face, the expression in her eyes difficult to read. But then it grew shuttered and she stepped away. "If you are as honourable as you seem, Sir Olberic," she said, softly, "then let me say nothing and cling to my tattered pride."

Then, with a polite bow of her head, she strode away.

Olberic watched her go with a growing pit in his stomach.

By Brand and Winnehild both, Primrose was right.

He was an honourable fool.

And for the first time in his life, he cursed himself for it.

* * *

"Leaving in the morning, then, are you?" The tavernkeep said as he placed a plate in front of her.

"I am," she said, smiling at him politely. "Though not with any particular relish."

"Glad to hear it. Cobbleston has its charms, and we're glad our visitors notice," he said, stepping away, and that ended the conversation. She did not call after him to indicate her agreement. Instead, she turned to her plate, contemplatively, and tried to remember that she was hungry.

She speared a boiled potato and broke off a piece, eating it without any particular enjoyment.

Eliza Woodward was not accustomed to rejection.

Not, she knew, that this was anything less than a triumph. Cobbleston had long been hesitant to welcome the Knights Ardante. She'd have to manage this progress with a deft, delicate hand. But she knew she could do it.

So why did everything taste like ash?

Well. She knew why. What she couldn't accept what that it still stung. By the Twelve gods, he'd allowed her to keep her dignity. Hell, he'd even given her a fair justification.

So… Had she dreamed the hunger in his eyes?

She was poking at a carrot when the light grew dimmer, and she realized someone was standing by her table.

She looked up.

Sir Olberic was peering down at her. Gods, but he was tall.

"May I sit?" He asked, gesturing to the chair across from her.

She nodded mutely.

He pulled a chair out and sat in it stiffly, looking for all the world like he was torn between his desire to sit and an urge to run. Eliza, though, cared only to collect the remains of her pride and wrap herself in them as well as she could. She straightened, looked at him head on, and prayed she looked as dispassionate as she hoped.

He cleared his throat. "I searched for you at the inn, and was told you'd already left their hospitality." His eyes went to her single bag, which she kept at her ankle.

"Yes," she said. "Having secured what I needed, it seemed fanciful to stay when duty calls."

He said nothing to that. "I… came to apologize." He averted his eyes. "I fear I have given offense. I hope you know it was not my intent."

Her insides squeezed. She managed a thin smile. "No offense was taken. If anything," she said, "I should be the one apologizing. I was terribly presumptuous."

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out, and thus he pressed his lips shut again.

They sat in silence for a brief instant, as Eliza felt the embarrassment rise. When at last she could bear it no longer, she inhaled, but he cut her off.

"I should have said yes," he blurted out.

This was as astonishing as the moon growing legs. She blinked at him, lips parted, and… And tried to process what he had just said.

Olberic's tanned face had taken on a quality she had never seen on him. He was… flushed.

Oh dear.

"That's…" He stood suddenly, the chair scraping on the floorboards. "That's it. Forgive me. I shall… leave you to your meal. Be safe on the road."

And then he turned away, and made to leave.

But Eliza's heart was glowing, and she stifled a grin.

* * *

"I could stay one night more."

Her voice was low, and yet it carried to his ears as clearly as a horn. And even if he had misheard her, his body hadn't. That voice, those words, trembled down his spine with a warm shiver, sending a jolt of want straight into his gut.

He turned to her, hoping his mind had not betrayed him.

She was looking at him directly, openly. There was neither mockery nor hesitation in her gaze.

"If you wished," she added.

By the Flame, he wished it. "Please." Only now that he contemplated that possibility, he remembered he had no quality food to offer, no elegance to impress her with. Would she still think it quaint, or would she think him a sad shadow of a man, a faded legend?

But she smiled, her lips quirking, and she seized her bag, hefting it. She left a few coins on the table, then stood.

"Alright, then," she lightly said, walking past him, "let us be about it."

In a daze, he followed her out of the tavern, into the street, where she pleasantly waved to some villagers.

"Wait," he said, after a moment, when he realized she was going up the street towards his house, "now?"

She paused, turning on her heel to look back at him. Once again, he felt like a boy rather than a full-grown man. In the bright sunlight, her hair was a red halo around her face, and those warm brown eyes were filled with obvious amusement. "Is now not convenient?"

Now was indecent. Now was tempting. He hadn't really thought about it. "Now is fine."

"Well, then," she said, pleased the matter was settled. "Shall I wait in the street while you tidy up or do you trust me to be generous?"

* * *

Morning woke Olberic up for the first time in years. Blinking at the odd sight of sunlight, when he was accustomed to waking before dawn, it took him a few seconds before the world found its axis again.

He owed his bleary understanding to the soft, very feminine form tucked against his side, a stream of red curls splayed over his shoulder and arm.

In the morning light, Eliza Woodward did not look like a soldier. She looked like… a woman. Just a woman. He studied the lines of her face, the shadows her lashes cast, the smoothness of her brow, the angle of her nose, the fullness of her lips, and not for the first time marveled at how well each feature formed a harmonious whole.

She stirred, but he was in no hurry to wake her. Instead, he let his eyes flutter closed once more, and enjoyed the warmth of their proximity.

Her hand moved first, uncurling from its loose fist to splay against his skin. And then he felt her move, felt her lips press into his chest once more, and knew she was awake.

"Hello," she murmured, when he opened his eyes to look. Her voice was low, raspy with sleep, but warm and good-humoured.

"Hello," he replied, in kind.

She pushed herself up on an elbow to better look at him. "I hope my presence did not keep you from sleeping too soundly."

He hadn't slept better in ages. "You'd be welcome again the next time you visit Cobbleston."

Her brow rose, and her cheeks took on a colour he had not expected. She was blushing. It was very interesting to witness, and Olberic stifled a smile.

"Am I to understand," she asked, cautiously, "that you are extending an invitation?"

He shrugged, as lazily as he could, and she rolled her eyes.

"Very well," she finally said. "I suppose I will need somewhere to sleep when I check in on my trainees."

"Your recruits," he corrected her. " _My_ trainees." She snorted.

They were silent for a few comfortable moments.

At length, he said, "I will be absent next month. Every year, I meet with my young companions to reminisce. But I would be full glad to see you again. After."

She leaned her cheek into her palm, and studied him, a faint smile on her lips. "Is that an invitation to court?"

His hand came up, brushed aside a lock of hair from her face gently. Her smile faded, replaced with a sort of soft apprehension. Olberic mustered his courage.

"Yes," he said.

Now it was her turn to run a hand over his cheek. She felt his scratchy stubble, her eyes dancing over his features. At last her lips pulled into a smile. "Very well, Sir Olberic." She grinned. "Though I confess we seemed to have gone about all this backwards."

He disagreed vehemently. In his humble opinion, the order of things had gone exactly right.

"If you say so," he muttered, letting his head fall back on the pillow.

She laughed.

Olberic found himself studying the ceiling, glad he hadn't said anything compromising in the heat of the moment. He would need time to figure out how to phrase a newfound discovery just right, and he wouldn't frighten her away by speaking too soon.

But the epiphany was there, a warm glow in his chest, reminding him of possibilities he had almost abandoned, of futures where his house need not be so silent, so empty. A future where he could be part of Cobbleston by more than just choice, by laying roots here, by settling in, by having children.

He only hoped Eliza Woodward intended to stay in the Highlands for at least another few decades.

"When you return from your yearly expedition," she said, and he realized she was still studying him, "I'd like it if you stopped by Stoneguard."

Brand be blessed ― it was comforting to know he wasn't the only one hoping. "It would be my honour."

"I'll have a first contingent ready for you by then."

His good mood faltered, and he shot her a look of clear annoyance, which only made her laugh more earnestly. "Am I to be your personal servant, then?"

Her smile turned devilish and she pushed herself forward to kiss the tip of his nose, eyes dancing with amusement. "Oh, yes, Sir Olberic. Mine and so much more."

And though he glowered at her for good measure, Sir Olberic Eisenberg the Unbending Blade found himself thinking that the prospect was rather more appealing than he'd ever admit.


End file.
